


Angel Dust and Arm Candy

by FanFictionIsMyWeakness



Category: Lord of the Flies - William Golding
Genre: Blood Kink, Child Abuse, Choking, Daddy Kink, Drug Use, Drug-Induced Sex, Drunk Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, Injury Kink, M/M, Multi, Praise Kink, Self-Harm, Size Kink, Spanking, Suicide Attempt, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-07-16 17:54:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 45,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7278049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FanFictionIsMyWeakness/pseuds/FanFictionIsMyWeakness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roger is filled to the brim with cigarette smoke and anger. He knows that he should find a better outlet for his rage, but he just can't seem to gather up the energy. And maybe none of this is fair to Simon, maybe he's put too much worry on the boy for his own good. Maybe Roger doesn't care. </p><p>Simon is depressed. He can't help it, it's just the way his brain is wired. Except, really, it's not. And really, he knows he needs help or else he'll swallow a bottle of pills again. But he thinks that maybe he doesn't even want the help. Maybe he'd be better off dead.</p><p>Ralph should be perfect. He's attractive, has amazing grades, he's fantastic at sports, and has girls falling for him left and right. Really, he's a wreck. Too much pressure is put on him to be the perfect boy everyone loves. Maybe that's why his thighs are covered in cuts done by a razor blade. </p><p>Jack is trying to meet a standard everyone's set for him. He needs to be head boy, leader of the choir, and go to a top of the line university.  He's so stressed out that it's no wonder he turns to drugs and fights to fix his problems. Sometimes, he wishes he could stay inside all day and do absolutely nothing. At least he'd stay out of trouble that way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chance Encounter

For whatever reason, Roger found that whenever he wished for time to move by quickly, it always went agonizingly slow. The minute hand on the school clock seemed to move at half the speed it was going just the day before, which made Roger tap his pencil against the polished wood of his desk impatiently. He sighed, knowing that there were only fifteen minutes left until he was out of that building. Only fifteen minutes until freedom. And yet, it felt like years.

 

He glanced down at the exam in front of him. It seemed unfair that he had to engage in such a cruel and annoying task on what would otherwise be a joyous day. Roger scowled at his paper, suddenly angry at the test itself instead of the professor administering it. He glanced back at the clock, finding that the stupid minute hand had barely moved at all. He wanted to tear his hair out and scream. He had plans for the night, the kind that involved using that term's homework to ignite a bonfire and whatever illegal substances Maurice could get his hands on. For a brief moment, Roger smiled at the thought.

 

Two more questions. Just two, measly questions before he could be finished with his exam and allow himself to relax until it was time to leave. He bubbled another answer and glanced back at the clock. Only three minutes had passed and he still had another question. He sighed, not meaning for it to be so loud, so defeated, but he couldn't help it. He glanced around the room, taking a moment to studied every face. Aside from Merridew, his classmates' faces were entirely forgettable. He couldn't have care less for the other students if he tried. They were all so shallow, he thought to himself. None of them really cared about anything that mattered outside of their superficial worlds of money and appearances and drugs. And Roger knew he was no different, he knew that his life revolved around getting high off his ass with the chief and Maurice and occasionally allowing himself to get wrapped up in his music, but none of that stopped the shallowness from being completely and utterly insufferable.

 

He drummed his fingers against the desk as his his roamed over the questions on his paper. He pressed the palms of his hands to his eyes, rubbing forcefully to try and wake himself up. He only had one question left. One question and eight minutes until freedom. Eight minutes until he could burn his papers and snort whatever white, powdery substance was put in front of him, whether it be cocaine, prescription pain killers, or heroin. His finger itched for a dose just at the thought.

 

He felt his phone buzz in his pocket, making his jump ever so slightly. He glanced around to room, making sure his professor wasn't looking before checking to see who texted him.

 

**From: Maurice**

 

_My fucking dealer bailed, which really sucks_

_because he was about to get a shipment of_

_some really good blow. I have about half an oz_

_of pot left, but that won't really have the same_

_effect. I got an offer for smack, but it's from_

_someone all hells of sketchy. Idk, what do you_

_and the chief wanna do?_

 

**To: Maurice**

 

_You can have me snort Adderall for all I care,_

_just get drugs strong enough that I won't_

_remember this tomorrow._

 

And suddenly, time sped up. Within only a moment after bubbling his last question the last minute of the school day ended and Roger was free for the rest of the summer. The second he stepped outside, he pulled a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his messenger bag, swiftly lighting one and letting the smoke fill his lungs. He took a moment to watch as the shallow, drug filled teenagers walk by, chattering excitedly for the summer. Roger rolled his eyes and let the smoke bellow out of the corner of his mouth. He watched as the gray wisps of smoke filled the air, then quickly faded to nothingness. Often times, Roger found himself comparing cigarette smoke to people. Superficial and unhealthy, something that could kill him but he can't seem to get enough of at the same time. They both fade from his life and seem to disappear into thin air without very much warning. But he's never upset about it, because they can always be replaced. Granted, Roger likes some more than others. They're all made differently and they all strike different chords with him, but in the end, it's just cigarettes. It's just people.

 

He leaned his back against the brick of the school, inhaling another drag of his cigarette. He rested his head against the building as he blew smoke into the air. He felt the stress wash away from his body, already beginning to forget his worries. Nicotine may not be the strongest drug he's used, but it's certainly the most effective. He allowed his fingers to inch up to the knot of his uniform tie and loosen it ever so slightly. He popped two of the buttons on his collar and held the cigarette between his teeth to roll up his sleeves. School uniforms really aren't his aesthetic. It was the variation of colors, with his dark blue pants paired with a crisp white shirt and that _damned_ green stripped tie. He wasn't one for all those bright colors. It was all too cheery, too fake.

 

Much to his discontent, Roger found that he was down to the filter of his cigarette. With a grumble of dissatisfaction, he pulled out another and lit it once again. He ran his fingers through he tip of the lighters flame absentmindedly as he stared out into the crowd, looking for fiery red hair and intense blue eyes. When he was actually gazing with intent, Roger found that he saw individual faces instead of the crowd as a whole. He liked the different faces. He liked the variation of eye colors, the sharpness of cheekbones, the different textures of hair, and soon he forget about his search for Merridew to focus his gaze on someone else. A boy, Roger noticed. Of course it was the first thing he noticed, it was such an obvious trait. He then focused on hair, the soft, dark locks that seemed to fall into his eyes. It compared nicely with his dark, smooth skin. He was small. Roger could tell that, even from a distance. The boy was thin and short, with what looked to be very little muscle mass.

 

It was the boy's smile that caught Roger off guard the most. He had such a warm, inviting smile that made Roger want to go up and talk to him, with thin pink lips and white, glistening teeth that made his soft, round cheeks dust with a rosy pink. He was laughing, Roger decided. About something one of his friends must've said. Maybe the fat boy on his left was some sort of comedic genius, because his smile didn't seem to fade. Then Roger decided that he and his group of friends, which was hardly any bigger than Roger's own, weren't moving. They were standing off to the side, away from the crowd, talking about something that Roger couldn't hear. Whatever it was, it had to have been hilarious because the pretty boy couldn't stop smiling that adorable smile.

 

His train of thought was interrupted by a pale, freckled hand reaching for his pack of cigarettes. Slowly, Roger turned his head to come face to face with Merridew, who had already put the cigarette between his teeth. Without so much as giving Roger a second glance, Merridew held out his hand, asking the silent question to be given the lighter. Roger obliged and watched as the chief swiftly lit his cigarette, taking a long drag before exhaling the puff of smoke up into the air. It was a strange thing, Roger's relationship with Merridew. It didn't matter how long they spent together or what they were doing, very few words were ever exchanged between the two. Roger liked it that way. He wasn't one for talking in the first place.

 

They allowed themselves to lean against the brick wall for a considerable amount of time, managing to go through the entire pack between the two of them. Both of their gazes were focused on the same area, and when Roger caught a sideways glance of the chief, he was surprised to see that Merridew's gaze was especially intense. He followed the gaze, only to find that the focus of Merridew's intensity was standing next to the focus of Roger's own. The boy was blonde and tall, with golden-tanned skin, smooth and free of blemishes. His cheeks were round and rosy, similar to a child, but his jawline was strong and angled. His eyes were blue and clear, similar to the sky and, if he was being honest, the golden boy's perfection was making Roger sick. Not with jealousy and not with want, but with a seething hatred. He had never seen a human being that had reached quite that level of godliness and it seemed unnatural. Never in his life had Roger been able to picture someone so flawless whenever he heard the word “teenager.”

 

He looked back at Merridew, searching his face for some sort of explanation. He took a moment to explore the chief's physic, the thought occurring to him that he had never once bothered to study his friend's looks. Perhaps that wasn't the most normal habit for sixteen year old mates, but he was starting to build up a genuine curiosity for how his friend had grown since primary school.

 

When they were just barely twelve and hitting their most awkward stages, Merridew's limbs had begun to grow too long for the rest of his body. His legs towered above everyone else and his fingertips very nearly reached his knees. His face had been covered in acne that no one had dared to so much as point out, much less make fun of. Other children weren't quite as scared of Merridew as they were of Roger, but that didn't stop him from being intimidating. His icy blue eyes had always held the kind of intensity that made their peers both follow his orders and fear him to no extent. A twelve year old's fear of him wasn't enough to keep people from whispering about how ugly he was. Aside from the acne and the fact that his face was always scrunched up in a permanent scowl, his appearance was contorted into something unspeakably hideous. His nose was too big, his eyes too narrow, his skin too freckled and pasty, his lips too thin and chapped. His limbs were so lanky that he seemed to stumble over his own too feet, and his figure was so thin that when it was matched with the paleness of his skin, he looked like a skeleton.

 

If Roger were to be fair, he had to admit that no child was attractive at age twelve. Seventh year was a ridiculously awkward time and just about everyone grew out of their clumsy hideousness. Upon first gaze, Roger realized that Merridew was no exception. He had grow to the insane height of six feet, four inches, finally allowing the rest of his body to catch up with his long limbs. He began to exercise just a few years before and built up a bit of muscle mass, making his thin frame seem more toned. Although he was still pale and freckles still covered his face, he had grown into his features. Everything about his face that made him ugly when they were children worked for him by the time they reached their sixteenth year. He had begun to gain a few suitors, all girls either a year below or above him, but he almost always turned them down. Roger knew of his few flings, but that was all they ever were; meaningless sex for Merridew's own pleasure.

 

For a moment, Roger locked eyes with Merridew, neither willing to break the gaze. It was as if they were having a silent conversation because both of their stares were intense enough to burn holes into human skin. After what seemed like eternity, Roger broke away in favor of gazing at the courtyard. It had mostly cleared out, apart from a few groups of teenagers chatting excitedly about their summer plans. The golden boy, the fatty, and the pretty one still had yet to move from their spot.

 

“He's pretty, ain't he?” Merridew asked, his voice gruff and low from all the smoking. Roger gave a quick nod, not taking his eyes off the small, dark boy.

 

“You wanna bet he's a screamer, chief?” He allowed himself to glance at Merridew from the corner of his eye, seeing that the chief was smirking. Roger felt the right corner of his mouth tilt up invoulentarily.

 

“I'll bet he'd do a lot more than scream.” Merridew replied. It occurred to Roger that they were, in fact, talking about two different people. He couldn't imagine the golden boy falling apart under the chief's touch, he was too perfect -he had far too much pride. That much Roger could tell, even though he had never met the boy. He seemed the type to play sports, he was lean and toned, like a football player. Perhaps he even dabbled in things like lacrosse or rugby and his pretty looks made him eligible to any sane girl in a five mile radius. Merridew didn't have a chance.

 

But the dark boy, he was a different story. He was small and shy. Maybe even quiet and meek -God, Roger could only hope- and he didn't seem to be the type to draw very much attention. He was cute, in the same sense a puppy or and infant were cute and Roger highly doubted he had many female suitors. He was too delicate, too kind and pure. If he were anyone else, Roger might have had a shot. But sadly, he was infamous. Too many people saw him as scary, intimidating, something to avoid like the plague. And perhaps they had a reason to think that way. He had no issue with getting in to fights, felt nothing when he snapped his opponents bones under his fingers, had no remorse when he made people cry. He didn't think that was the most attractive reputation to bring to the attention of such an innocent person.

 

As the sun beat down on the court yard, Roger began to think to himself that it was far too hot to be standing outside for much longer. He wanted to get home and change into something more seasonally appropriate and possibly pick up another packet of cigarettes on his way. Merridew had invited him and Maurice over as a way to celebrate the school year ending and the beginning of their summer holiday. Really, the party was an excuse to get drunk off their asses and do enough drugs to kill the island of Manhattan. Needless to say, Roger was looking forward to it. While the chief and Maurice liked to be reckless and sloppy when their highs set in, Roger always found himself staring at the stars, wondering about the universe and the constellations. He had always found the prospect of space an endearing one and it was all the more fascinating when he was hopped up on drugs.

 

He could feel his fingers itch for another cigarette, just the smallest hit of nicotine to keep him going before he could get to the real fun. He would really have to pick up another pack before going over to Merridew's. Not that the chief was never stocked up on a gracious supply of smokes, but Roger had always preferred his own. It was mostly a control thing. He needed to get his own cigarettes and pay for them out of his own pocket to really feel like they were his. He wasn't one to take handouts and he certainly wasn't the type to use other people's things for his own.

 

He turned to Merridew, giving a small nod to signal that he was heading home. Merridew nodded back, but stayed pressed against the wall of the school house, another lit cigarette balanced between his fingers. For a brief moment, Roger was tempted to asked for one, just to get his tobacco fix, but he refused to sink down to that level.

 

He had to walk half a mile out of his way just to find a store that sold cigarettes. The inconvenience would've normally left Roger a bit miffed but much to his luck he spotted the cute, dark boy in the back of the store, buying a packet of crisps. Roger's eyes followed the boy as he made his way up to the register. Up close, Roger had the opportunity to study more of the features in his face. His eyes were wide and green and they sparkled when ever they hit the light. His cheekbones sat high on his face, making his smile looked a thousand times more adorable and pinch able. They held a rosy tint to them that was visible even through his dark skin. His hair was thick and shaggy and it seemed as though the boy were always pushing it out of his eyes.

 

For a moment, their eyes met and Roger felt heat rise to his cheeks. He didn't look away, just stared back into the boy's pretty green eyes for what felt like eternity. He tried to look away, to make it seem as though he weren't staring, but for whatever reason, he couldn't do it. The boy gave a small, awkward smile before taking his crisps from the cashier. Roger wanted to say something, to make it clear that he wasn't staring -even though he absolutely was- but he found himself rendered speechless. The boy gave him one more smile as he pushed past Roger and headed out the door.

 

For a moment, Roger stood in his place, shell-shocked. He wished he had said something, had the opportunity to hear the boy's sweet, angelic voice. He turned to glance out the door, seeing that the boy was out of eye shot. Slowly, as if out of fear, he pushed the glass door open and let his eyes take in the surroundings. He saw just the slightest silhouette of the boy walking along the pavement and the beginnings of a smirk cracked against Roger's face. He began following the dark haired boy, always staying far enough away so that the other wouldn't be aware of his presence. He wasn't sure what drove him to it, either. Maybe Roger didn't have a reputation for being the best person, but he had never gone as far as to stalk someone. Granted, people never really caught his eye. He liked looking at pretty girls, admiring their aesthetics and what not, but he always found teenagers to be far too shallow for him to take in any sort of interest. He didn't care about getting to know anyone, and luckily for him, no one cared about breaking his walls, either.

 

But this boy had something different about him and Roger very much intended on finding out what it was. His fascination with the boy was strange, though. He wasn't one to believe in love at first sight, or really any other hopelessly romantic bullshit of that nature, and he certainly didn't believe he was in love with a boy he didn't even know the name of. And yet, Roger was drawn to him. He wanted to know as much about this small, dark skinned boy as he possibly could.

 

They walked a few blocks, Roger stopping every time the dark boy did. After a bit, the boy glanced over his shoulder, only to lock eyes with Roger once again. They were a few meters apart, just far away enough for Roger's footsteps not to be noticed, but close enough for the boy's words to be heard.

 

“Do you live down this street?” He asked, and yes, his voice was just a gorgeous as Roger had imagined. It held a forced cheerfulness in an attempt to mask how anxious he actually was. For an instant, Roger wanted to reach out and touch him, try to comfort him in some way or another. The feeling passed quickly and he nodded his head in place. It was a blatant lie, he barely knew where they were, but it managed to get the smaller boy's shoulders to release some of their tension. Roger watched as the boy hesitated, trying to decide if he should say something else or just continue walking.

 

“I'm, um,” He bit his lip and Roger couldn't help but think how adorable the boy was. “I'm Simon.” He said, taking a few steps closer to the other boy. He held out his hand to shake, which Roger took with a bit of hesitation.

 

Simon. The name left a nice flavor on the tip of Roger's tongue. He wanted to hear it on his own gruff voice. Maybe even panting it as Simon gasped and writhered underneath him. It was a pleasant thought that made the corners of his lips tilt up into a smirk.

 

“Roger.” He said, giving a small nod of his head. He watched as Simon's eyes trailed over his body, taking a moment to study his features. He pulled his hand free from Roger's grasp and held it up, almost as if he were reaching for something. He stopped suddenly, seeming to question his action.

 

“Is that a tattoo?” He asked, making Roger's smirk grow wider. He loosened his uniform tie and pulled back the collar of his button down to reveal the image ingrain on his collarbone. It was a serpent wrapped around a tribal hunting spear with the words _kill the beast_ written under in chicken scratch lettering. Simon reached his hand out to touch the image, only to retract it once again. “May I?” He asked and Roger nodded, tilting his head to the side to give Simon better access. He felt the boy's delicate fingers trace the ink, outlining ever curve and edge of the tattoo. Atfer a moment, Simon stopped to look Roger directly in the eye.

 

“What does _kill the beast_ mean?” He asked, his gaze intense and questioning. Roger smirked and leaned in closer to Simon, their noses a few inches apart. He watched as a nervous flush spread across Simon's cheeks and his eyes widened in surprise.

 

“Are you sure you want to know?” Roger asked, his voice low. He watched a visible shiver go up Simon's spine and felt a sense of accomplishment. “The answer might scare you.” Simon studied his eyes for a minuet, the blush fading from his cheeks.

 

“I'm not very easily scared.” He said, his voice low and quiet, matching Roger's tone. A spark ran through Roger's veins and his head clouded with lewd images. He saw himself pinning Simon against a wall, his hips pressed against the smaller boy's rear. He would have his fingers wrapped around Simon's neck, making him gasp and moan and beg for more. Roger bit his lip at the thought, his eyes roaming up and down the dark boy's body. He put his mouth up to Simon's ear, dropping his voice down to a whisper.

 

“I don't think you can handle it.” He felt a pair of hands wrap around his biceps, giving them a light squeeze.

 

“You're cocky,” Simon said, a smile in his voice. He took a step back from Roger, releasing his grip on the other boy's arms. “I guess that's to be expected, what with your tattoos and piercings. I guess you think you're some sort of badass.” He dropped his voice, pulling Roger down to his height by his tie and whispering in the other's ear. “Or maybe you're just compensating for something else.” Simon's hand trailed across Roger's thigh, getting dangerously close to his crotch. Roger was a bit taken aback by how forward the seemingly innocent boy was and, honestly, it was kind of hot. He pulled him closer in a fit of aggression, making the small boy squeak in surprise.

 

“You're such a fucking smart ass.” Roger said, noticing how close their lips were. Everything was happening so quickly, and it was a bit intimidating. He never expected to be having this sort of conversation with the boy, much less so soon. He ran his teeth over his bottom lip, snagging his lip ring ever so slightly. “Tell you what,” He started, making Simon's eyes widen with interest. “I'll tell you what my tattoos mean when I manage to get you on your back.” He watched as Simon's face flushed once again, a sort of panic in his eyes that indicated he didn't know what to address first.

 

“You have more than one tattoo?” He asked, making Roger smirk.

 

“I guess you'll just have to find out, won't you pretty boy?” Simon gave a sarcastic scoff and shook his head.

 

“I'm _not_ pretty.”


	2. Bitter Realizations

Warm water washed over Ralph's naked body as he watched the scarlet lines of blood run down his thighs. He sighed, running his hands through his hair to push the wet strands out of his eyes. The blood is sickening to look at, and he's well aware of that. He knows what it does to him, knows the queasy feeling he gets in the pit of his stomach every time he slices the razor across his skin, but he does nothing to stop the pain. Scars and scabs and open wounds run all over his thighs, starting at the bottoms of his hip bones to the tops of his knees. 

 

It's become sort of a game, really. He'll see what sorts of intricate patterns he can make with his blood, which of the words he carves into his skin will leave the most obvious scar, where he can cut that will bleed the most. It's sick, absolutely mental and deranged and it's come to a point where it's all he knows. At least he has the comfort of a warm shower. He can clean his wounds, let the blood wash away. His father won't bother him while he's showering. It gives him time to think.

 

He sat down, suddenly finding that he no longer had the energy to stand. His legs burned at the slightest shift and he knew that the wounds were deep this time. The blood wouldn't stop and it reminded him of spider legs. As much as he wanted to hate the blood, he also found it mesmerizing. As ugly as the scars should have been, he didn't like how his skin looked without them. He thinks every inch of his body should be covered in scars as a way to remind him of his worthlessness.

 

He pulled his knees to his chest, cringing at the burning sensation that ran through his body. He watched as another drop of blood spilled out of one of his wounds and ran down the side of his leg. He wouldn't be bleeding so much if he wasn't in the shower. At least, he hoped to God that there wouldn't be so much blood. He thought for a moment that maybe he'd die, maybe he'd be lucky enough to bleed out in the shower and have the luxury to forget about everything. He knew he wouldn't and although Ralph often thought of death, he's almost positive he wouldn't actively try to kill himself. He wanted to, though. He really wanted to die and he couldn't figure out why. He's had it easy most of his life with friends and sports and a wealthy enough family. He should have been happy, but he wasn't.

 

He took a moment to sit in silence after turning off the shower, letting the wounds heal before he bothered to dry himself off. He hated summer holiday. His father spent less time away during the warmer seasons physically, but somehow they talked even less when he was home. Ralph believed it was because there wasn't any rush if he's not to be deployed soon. When he's gone during the school year, he and Ralph only have so much time together before he has to leave again, so they always try to make the most of it. Of course, the effort always fails horrendously, but Ralph can appreciate that his father is trying and raising a teenager is no easy task.

 

Ralph's father is a quiet man as is and it's difficult to get even the slightest bit of warmth out of him. The most distraught Ralph ever saw his father was when his eyes watered at his wife's funeral. He hadn't even really cried, which angered Ralph to no end at the time, considering how much of an emotional wreck he was when his mother died. He understood now that it was because his father was trying to keep up a front to make Ralph feel better. Things would have been worse had his father allowed himself to fall apart and Ralph respected his strength.

 

What he couldn't bring himself to respect was the hitting. It was constant and over such minuscule things that most people would let go. He distinctly remembered getting beat over not finishing his plate of vegetables when he was a mere age of eleven. He had never been one for cabbage, but apparently expressing his dislike of the food was a crime reputable by a fist across the face. He had to lie at the school for the next week about how he got his black eye.

 

It was just discipline, if Ralph were to be fair. There were better ways to raise a child, but his father was stuck in his outdated ways. It didn't mean he didn't care for Ralph, it was just his way of doing things. Who was Ralph to judge? He didn't have children and he wasn't one to tell his father how to raise his own child. Still, he feared his father to no end.

 

After a moment of sitting on the floor of his shower, listening to the sounds of the shower facet drip and his own breathing, he stood up and wrapped himself in a towel, making sure to wipe off the excess blood dripping down his legs. The cuts had started to heal themselves, swelling a bit from agitation. He was no longer bleeding, but the injuries still caused a burning sensation to prickle at his skin. He sighed and ran a hand through his water soaked hair, the golden blond stands still dripping wet. He glanced down at the cloths he had laid out for himself, consisting of a green t-shirt and his favorite pair of dark gray joggers. His friends tended to question him as to why he always wore long pants, regardless of how hot it was outside. Ralph never had a particularly convincing answer. He usually stated that he had never been a fan of shorts and that it wasn't even that hot out.

 

He finished drying off and quickly got dressed, being careful not to agitate the wounds as he shimmied on his bottoms. They were still fresh and Ralph found that any sort of movement caused the burning sensation to pierce through his legs, making walking normally a bit difficult. He took a moment to run the towel through his hair a few times, having it absorb some of the moisture before he headed out the door.

 

His walk to the twin's house would've been a peaceful one, had it not been for the burning in his thighs. It was a plesant day, really. The sky was a clear blue, aside from the few puffy white clouds that floated by, and the temperature was comfortably warm. Ralph could smell the light scent of summer flowers wafting through the air, giving off a comforting vibe to go with the day. It was unusually colorful for England, the day filled with yellow sunshine and blue skies in place of the typical drab gray that filled the air. As lovely as the colors were, Ralph wasn't particularly fond of them. He had always found something comforting about the grayness of London. He liked the rain and the cold and the lack of harsh vibrance from the colors. Perhaps England wasn't one of the most exciting places in the world, but it felt more like home than anywhere else.

 

He reached the twin's house within a span of ten minuets, which was record time. It was Sam who answered the door, his toothy, crooked grin as wide and excited as ever. Ralph's closeness to the twins had never been particularly existent. He liked Sam and Eric and he found them entertaining, but he had never allowed himself to share too much personal information with them. It was almost sad how little they actually knew about him, but Ralph had no intention of changing that.

 

“Oi, Eric,” Sam called, turning his head to face his brother. “Ralphie's finally made it.” Ralph grinned as Sam stepped out of the door frame to let him inside. He saw Eric not far from the door, grinning at him with that same crooked, toothy grin.

 

“About damn time.” Eric said, not talking to Sam but looking directly at Ralph. “Piggy and Simon are out back, doing God knows what. We've all been waitin' around for you to get started.” Ralph grinned wider, unzipping the duffel bag slung across his shoulder and pulling out three DVD cases.

 

“Hope I'm not too late. I had to search my house high and low for these.” In his hand, Ralph held three particularly horrendous horror movies, which the twins had insisted were essential for their summer holiday party. It wasn't so much of a party as it was a sleepover between a few good mates. The only thing that was similar to any sort of party was the fact that the twins were always stocked up on cheap alcohol.

 

Ralph stepped outside to the twin's backyard, finding Simon and Peter sitting across from each other in the grass and passing a bottle of vodka back and forth between each other. Ralph sat down a reasonable distance between the two and took the bottle of alcohol from Simon's hands without uttering so much as a 'hello.' He continued to down the bitter liquid until he could no longer handle the burning in his throat. He coughed and sputtered once the bottle left his lips, wiping away the excess vodka with the back of his hand. Generally, Ralph didn't drink much. He would occasionally share a bottle of beer between his friend's during special events, but that was the most alcohol he was prone to consume. But he needed some sort of anesthetic to numb the pain pricking at his thighs and he figured vodka was as good a one as any.

 

He immediately felt light headed and giggly, as if a wave of tension had been released from his joints, washing away his troubles as well. He took another swig, the bitter burning less harsh the second time, before passing the bottle to Peter. It wasn't long before the group of three grew to a group of five as the twins joined them in their little drinking circle. Ralph's head was spinning by the time the five of them reached the bottom of the bottle and he took a moment to rest his head in Simon's lap, who saw the action as an opportunity to braid little pieces of his hair. That had always been Ralph's relationship with Simon. They tended to lean on each other during times of even the most mild distress. Ralph particularly liked that Simon never tried to fix his problems or give him useless advice, he would just listen and be sympathetic, which was far more comforting that anything else Ralph had ever experienced.

 

Sometimes it scared Ralph how easy it was for him to talk to Simon, especially about things such as his issues or his feelings. He had never been able to express those sorts of concerns with his father and he couldn't understand why it would be easier with a friend. Perhaps it was because Simon went through a similar situation. It wasn't his thighs that were marked up in burn marks and razor blade scars, but rather his arms. The injuries ran all the way from his wrists to his shoulders. Much like Ralph, some were just scars to remind him of the past, but other's were fresh wounds to remind him of the present. The only major difference between their scars was that Simon didn't mind people knowing. He allowed himself to be the broken one, to be the one everyone pitied and worried over. He answered evereyone's question's honestly and never seemed ashamed for people to find out.

 

Ralph on the other hand couldn't afford that sort of pity. He had a reputation to keep up and a father to keep happy. He couldn't be known as the broken one, as the athlete with the self harm scars or the golden boy with the image issues. He needed to be cheerful, pleasant, the one people depended on to make them smile and tell them it would be okay, not the one who needed to be reminded of such things. Unlike Simon, Ralph couldn't handle the thought of not being perceived as perfect, because that was all he had ever really known. Not even Simon truly knew the extent of the scars on Ralph's thighs. He had never seen them, he had never been outright told his friend was harming himself. Simon had just been given hints, small things to pick up on to lead him to believe Ralph hurt himself. But he didn't know. He couldn't truly know.

 

It didn't take long for the twins to find a new bottle of alcohol and the five of them to drink it down a second time. They decided to continue the trend, moving on to a third, then fourth, bottle. Simon was the first to throw up, which was understandable considering he was the smallest boy out of the five. Even though Sam and Eric were a year below the other's, they were tall and lanky and quite a bit bigger than Simon.

 

“I met someone.” Simon said, breaking the silence. The five of them had been drunkenly staring up at the sunset for what felt like hours, all mesmerized by the colors and puffy clouds. It took a moment for any of them to react, each having a different question for the small dark boy.

 

“What do you mean by _met_?”

 

“Who is it?”

 

“Are they cute?”

 

Ralph was the only one who ceased to say anything, just allowing himself to take in Simon's words. The small boy took a moment to process the others' questions before answering.

 

“Okay, um,” He said, sitting up to face the rest of the group. “That was a lot of _-hic_ -” He puased, placing his hand over his mouth and swallowed before speaking again. “A lot of questions, um,” one by one, the rest of the group began to sit up to face Simon, waiting patiently for his responses. “I guess I'll start with Peter's?” His statement sounded more like a question to Ralph and he furrowed his brow. Simon hiccuped again and redirected his gaze to Peter, who was leaning forward and staring intently at the smaller boy. He hadn't had as much to drink as the rest of them, so Ralph could only assume his mind was the most clear. “I already forgot what you asked.” Simon said, making Peter sigh in annoyance

 

“What did you mean when you said you _met_ someone?” He asked. Simon stared at him for a bit, his drunk brain trying to comprehend what the fat boy was asking.

 

“Oh, um, right, uh,” He paused to hiccup again, making the twins bust out in a fit of giggles. Ralph allowed himself to grin. “I have a crush, or maybe he has a crush on me?” Simon stared at the ground as his face scrunched up in concentration. “I think he has a crush on me. He let me touch his tattoo.”

 

“He has a tattoo?” Peter squeaked, his voice indicating a state of panic. Simon nodded, the panicked tone clearly going over his head. The grin plastered on his face was only seeming to grow the more he thought about whoever it was he had met.

 

“He has a few tattoos, but I only got to touch the one on his collarbone. And a lip piercing. It's this little stud and it looks like a diamond and it catches the light when he smiles. He also has his ears pierced and one of those bars that goes acorss the top of his ear.” Simon turned to Ralph, who was sitting right next to him, his knees pulled up to his chest. “What are those called?”

 

“Industrial's or industrial bars or something.” Ralph said, barely lifting his chin from its resting place between his knees.

 

“Yeah, those! And he has gray eyes and really thick, black hair and he's really tall.”

 

“Everyone's tall to you.” Eric pointed out, yawning ever so slightly.

 

“So he is cute?” Sam asked. Simon nodded.

 

“Cute and charming and _tall_.” Simon stressed.

 

“Wait, hold on,” Peter said, making the group snap their heads in his direction. He had taken off his spectacles and begun cleaning them on his shirt, nervously. “Did you happen to catch his name?” He asked, not looking up from his frames.

 

“Of course.” Simon replied. “Not his surname, but his first one, yes. It's 'Roger'.” Peter's breath hitched and his movement's stilled. Quickly, he pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose and stared at Simon, wide eyed.

 

“No,” He said, sounding positively horrified. “No, no, this isn't good.” Simon cocked his head to the side, his brow scrunched up into a look of confusion.

 

“What are you balbbering on about, Piggy?” Sam said, making Peter snap his head in Sam's direction, glowering at him.

 

“ _That_ is exactly what I'm talking about. That fucking nickname Roger and the devil Merridew came up with all the way back in primaries.” Peter said, his face flushing red.

 

“That's not exactly how it happened,” Ralph interjected, lifting his head fully from it's spot between his knees. “Merridew wanted to call you fatty but that bothered you quite a bit, so I came up with Piggy, thinking it would somehow be better than anything Merridew could come up with, but it stuck much better. So if you want to blame anyone for being called Piggy, blame me.”

 

“Okay, but it wasn't your idea to come up with a rude nickname for me-”

 

“And,” Ralph interuppted. “That was years ago. When was the last time you spoke to either of them?” Ralph waited a moment for Peter to reply, but when the fat boy stayed silent, he turned to Simon. “Don't worry about what he _might_ have done back in primary school. You're perfectly welcome to like Roger because of who he is now.” Simon smiled, a light pink blush dusting across his dark skin.

 

“Oi, Ralph,” Eric called from the other side of the circle, a beer bottle placed in the palm of his hand. “What about you and your boo?” He asked, making Ralph flush scarlet. Although he wasn't entirely sure what the younger boy could've been referring to, considering Ralph's love life was about as existent as a unicorn. Of course he had a few female suitors, mostly girls who liked his athleticism and seemed to believe that his place on the football team would bring up their personal social status's, but he never did much more than subtly flirt back. Really, Ralph had little to no interest when it came to things such as dating or relationships and he would rather focus on more important matters. Still, the fact that Eric was implying he was in some sort of relationship meant that he had lead his friends to believe he had a secret girlfriend of sorts, and not only was that embarrassing, but it flat out wasn't true.

 

“I'm not dating anyone right now.” He clarified, making Eric's eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

 

“Really? Huh.” He said, bringing the beer bottle up to his lips and taking another sip. “I just thought you and ol' chiefy had something going on considering how much time he spends looking at your arse.” Perhaps Ralph could blame a bit of the redness in his face on the alcohol in his system, but mostly his flush was due to embarrassment. He couldn't remember the last time he had a full conversation with Jack Merridew. It must have been the beginning of secondary school at the latest, and that was less of a conversation and more of a beating on Ralph's behalf. He had just been trying to defend Peter, who had grown sick and tired of the comments about his weight. Merridew hadn't taken well to Ralph's complaints and the fair boy ended up going home with a bloody nose and finger shaped bruises around his neck.

 

They had been friends in the beginning years of their education, but the relationship hadn't lasted very long. Ralph found that there were too many negative traits to Merridew to overlook. He was too fiery and arrogant, even at a young age. He always wanted to lead every activity, making sure the other children did as he said without question. If they didn't listen to Merridew, he would always find a way to make them cry. It was when Ralph realized that Merridew was no good as far as friends went when he met Peter, then Simon not long after. They were both so much kinder than Merridew and so much more reserved. Not that Ralph ever minded a bit of rowdiness, he was a fairly hyper kid during his primary school years, but Merridew's fire was too much to handle and the shared quietness between Peter and Simon was refreshing.

 

Ralph had always assumed Merridew hated him for leaving, that after all those years he still held some sort of grudge against the fair boy, so the idea that the red headed devil had romantic, or at the very least sexual, feelings toward him was difficult to believe.

 

“I highly doubt Merridew is interested in me.” He said, trying to laugh off the absurdity of the situation. It was Sam's turn to interject. He shrugged and grabbed the bottle of alcohol from his brother's grasp.

 

“I think Eric has a point. He is the type of bloke to lash out at someone instead of telling them how he feels. He probably doesn't even realize he likes you.” Ralph was tempted to redirect the conversation back to Simon. He wanted to laugh off the twin's comments and ask Simon more about his new crush, but at the same time, the subject intrigued him. No that he was interested in Merridew. He could never be interested in someone that manipulative or unpredictable, but Merridew held a certain charm to him that made Ralph want to learn more about his life. Or maybe he was just drunk and not thinking straight. Either way, he wanted to know more.

 

“You can't be sure.” Ralph said, shaking his head in an attempt to pass all this off as an elaborate joke. “And besides, Merridew is _not_ the type of bloke to be of the queer kind.” Sam shrugged and took another swig of his drink before passing it back to Eric.

 

“Maybe not, but the facts don't lie.” He said, his words just the smallest bit slurred. Ralph's expression furrowed into a scowl, making Eric let out the smallest giggle.

 

“ _What_ facts?” Ralph asked, suddenly aggitated. It wasn't so much that he had a problem with a boy having feelings for him, he often found himself wondering what it would be like to dabble in homosexual expirementing and he had never found the thought particularly repulsive. If it were anyone else who had the hots for him, Ralph would consider giving the lad a chance. It was just that fact that it was _Merridew_ that both disgusted and intrigued Ralph so much. He and Merridew didn't speak to each other often and when they did it was typically relatively civil conversations about homework or borrowing pencils or anything else of that nature, but even so, Ralph struggled with shaking off the horrible things he'd witnessed Merridew inflict on other unfortunate beings. As far as Ralph was concerned, their hatred for each other had died out long ago, but that didn't mean Merridew wasn't up to his old tricks when it came to others. For that reason, Ralph couldn't percieve him as anything other than an enemy.

 

“The fact that Merridew is always calling you 'pretty boy' and looking at your arse.” Eric said, making Ralph sigh in exasperation. He had never really thought much of Merridew's comments on his looks. He figured that the red headed boy was naturally flirtatious with everyone around him. That, or Merridew's constant comments on Ralph's looks were meant to be sarcastic and condescending as a way to still subtly torment the fair boy, even after they had made their silent truce. He always considered Merridew to be naturally flirtatious, especially around pretty girls, and for that fact Ralph had a hard time seeing the other boy as the queer type. Maybe his drunken state wasn't the best one to be contemplating his foe's sexuality in because the more he thought about it, the more he believed the twin's suspicions. It wasn't often that lads were flirtatious with each other, even as a joke between mates and Ralph and Merridew certainly _were not_ mates, so what was with the comments? Ralph knew he was a conventionally attractive bloke when it came down to beauty standards. He had trouble accepting his appearance in his own eyes, but he knew that other people did see him as a good looking young lad and he had never gotten a negative comment on his appearance. Still, he didn't appreciate the remakes when they came from another boy. Especially since that boy was one of his most hated enemies.

 

Ralph turned to Peter, who had a strangely unreadable expression on his face. He was staring straight back at Ralph with an intensity the fair boy didn't know his friend was capable of, with his lips pursed in a look of concentration. He than glanced at Simon, who seemed to have been stuck in his own batty world as he wove flowers and grass together in an attempt to make a crown. Simon was a batty kid as is, but the second he got alcohol in his system he seemed to lose sight of everything in the world around him. His other three friends, however, were starting to freak Ralph out with how intensely they were staring at him. His tried to avert from their gazes, but the attempt was futile. The other three boys seemed to have been determined to make Ralph as uncomfortable as possible and he didn't particularly appreciate it. Peter was the first to speak.

 

“You don't fancy Merridew, do you?” He asked, his expression shifting to look of genuine concern. Ralph took a moment to contemplate. Merridew was loud mouthed, arrogant, and he would do anything to get his way, and for those reasons Ralph despised him. And yet, there was a certain aura of confidence and complication that seemed to draw the fair boy to him. No, Ralph didn't necessarily _fancy_ Merridew, but the boy did interest him in a twisted sort of way. For whatever reason, it didn't matter how little he and Merridew interacted, Ralph still wanted to know more about the other.

 

“No.” Ralph answered after his moment of hesitation. “He's swine. I couldn't think of anyone more repulsive.” Although the statement wasn't exactly a lie, Ralph knew it wasn't the truth. The fact of the matter was the fair boy found Merridew to be a bully and a pig, but at the same time he wanted to continue their relationship, as twisted as it was. Peter seemed to breath out a sigh of relief, the tension releasing in his shoulders. The twins, however, continued to stare.

 

“Enough talk,” Sam announced, suddenly. “I propose we watch some good ol' fashioned shitty horror movies.” Ralph smiled at his friend, signaling his thanks for the change of subject. He would be much more comfortable if the rest of the night didn't contain any talk of Merridew.

 


	3. And We Started Off Doing So Well

Sometime after the sun had set and the stars started to shine, Roger found himself lying on his back in the grass of Merridew's backyard, a lit cigarette in one hand and a bottle of Smirnoff in another. He blew a puff of smoke into the night sky, watching as the gray wisps swirled around the stars. Somewhere off to the side of him, Maurice and Merridew were lighting matches and spitting alcohol into the flames, making them erupt into a personal flame thrower. Although Roger really couldn't care less about whatever his friends were doing, he knew that somewhere in the back of his head it couldn't be smart to let his drugged up and intoxicated friends be handling fire. Still, he didn't bother to stop them, but instead shook his head at how utterly idiotic they were acting.

 

He stood from his spot on the blanket and made his way over to Merridew's porch, where Maurice had set up lines of cocaine on one of the tables. With a rolled up bit of paper, he snorted a line of the white, powdery drug, immediately feeling the burning sensation in his nasal cavity. He pressed his index finger under his nose in an attempt to calm the burning and shook his head. With in a few moments the pain subsided and he instantly felt more alert and euphoric. He swiped his fingers over the lines of blow and rubbed the white powder along his gums. The sleepy feeling that had begun to rest in the pit of his stomach had dispersed entirely and he suddenly felt awake and energetic. He glanced over at Merridew and Maurice, who had stopped playing with fire and were instead sitting at the edge of Merridew's pool, their feet dipped into the water. Roger sat next to his mates, one hand drumming rapidly against his thigh and the other grasping for another cigarette. Merridew tossed him the lighter, which Roger caught easily.

 

“Sometimes I wonder if goldfish have feelings.” Maurice said, his voice sounding far away and lost in his own thoughts. He wasn't looking at either of his friends, but instead staring down at his own reflection in the pool. Merridew erupted in a fit of barking laughter, the kind that was so loud and obnoxious that Roger contemplated pushing him into the water.

 

“Maurice, what the fuck?” Merridew asked, once his fit of giggles had died down. He still had a wide grin plastered to his face and Roger was almost certain the chief shed a tear. Maurice looked back at Merridew, his own goofy grin stuck to his expression.

 

“I mean, think about it. Those dumb fucks just swim around all day without shit to do and then when someone just like, I don't know, fucking stabs them or some shit they're just like _'oh whoops, looks like I'm getting eaten for someones dinner.'_ And it's really sad, you know? But at the same time, they don't fight back, so maybe all goldfish want to die.” Maurice paused to stare down at his own reflection in the water. Suddenly he gasped, snapping his head up and clapping his hand on Merridew's thigh. “Goldfish are suicidal.” He shouted, triumphantly, only making Merridew erupt into another fit of laughter. Roger gave a small smile, finally getting to his pack of cigarettes and managing to light one.

 

“Goldfish are too stupid to be suicidal.” Merridew shot back, making Maurice glare at him in offence.

 

“How would you know? You're not a fish.” He said. Merridew stared at him for a moment before getting up from his spot, muttering.

 

“I need more goddamn cocaine to put up with this shit.” Roger scoffed. He put his lit cigarette back up to his lips, taking a long drag before blowing out the puff of smoke along the water. He glanced back at Maurice, who was staring up at the sky, seemingly mesmerized by the stars and the moon. Roger could understand the feeling. He himself spent an absurd amount of time staring up at the sky and wondering about the universe. It mostly occurred when he was high, but occasionally on his sober nights -which weren't very often- he would begin contemplating the galaxy.

 

“Sometimes I wonder if something's watching us up there.” Maurice said, sounding dreamy and far away. Roger turned to stare at him, putting the cigarette up to his lips. “I mean, the universe is so vast and shit, you know?” He continued, turning to face Roger. “Like, there's gotta be something out there, right? And if there isn't and Earth is the only fucking planet with any life on it in the entire goddamn universe, how did we get so lucky?” Roger scoffed, taking one last puff from the cigarette before flicking it into the water. Merridew would have to deal with it later.

 

“I don't think we're lucky to be alive.” Roger said, a sense of bitter resentment in his tone. Maurice rolled his eyes, standing up from his spot on the edge of the pool.

 

“Jesus Rog, could you get any more emo?” He asked, making Roger shrug. He huffed and stalked away from the water, heading toward the patio. “Oi, chief,” He called, making Jack look up from the lines of cocaine. “I'm heading out.”

 

“Already?” Merridew asked, rubbing the white powder into his gums. Maurice nodded.

 

“You can keep the blow, though. If mum catches me with any more drugs then I'll get sent off to reform school or some shit. I can't really risk that.” Roger watched as a small smile crept across Jack's face, making him roll his eyes. It wasn't much of a secret that Merridew's tolerance of Maurice only existed because of his supply of drugs, but Roger thought the chief could at least be a bit less obvious about it. Maurice took the rolled up piece of parchment from Merridew's hand and blew one last line before waving his goodbye to the other two boys. They waited a moment in still silence after Maurice left before Merridew retook his place at the edge of the pool. They stayed silent for a bit, passing a single cigarette back and forth and trying to make images with the smoke. The jitters Roger had experienced from the cocaine had mostly worn off and he was back to feeling calm and a bit sleepy. He wasn't entirely sure what the time was, but considering how quiet the night had become and high the moon was in the sky, he could only guess it was sometime passed midnight.

 

Merridew was the first to disturb the silence by kicking up a bit of water and watching as the drops ricocheted against the pool. He watched as Merridew's fingers drummed against his thigh and he squirmed in his place. Almost subconsciously, Roger scooted toward him, making it so they were close enough that their shoulders brushed together. He took a moment to stare at his friend, once again studying his looks. The night was dark and the air hazy from cigarette smoke, making it difficult for Roger to make out much. He could see the chief's fiery red curls stand out against the moonlight and the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. He could see the muscles in Jack's biceps tighten, then release their tension a few times over. Roger bit the corner of his lip, snagging the metal stud between his teeth. Merridew locked eyes with him, his expression cold and unreadable and they held contact for a while.

 

In a second, Merridew's lips were on his, aggressive and harsh just like the boy behind the kiss. Roger wove his fingers into the red curls, tugging as his caught Jack's bottom lip between his teeth. The bite was hard enough to make the red headed boy groan and Roger could vaguely taste a hint of copper. He ran his tongue over the bite mark, picking up more of the metal flavor and let out the smallest groan into his friend's mouth. He felt fingernails dig into his sides harshly, pulling the boy closer to Merridew's body. Roger released his grip on his friend's hair and slowly trailed his fingers down to Merridew's throat. He gave it a harsh squeeze, making the other boy groan loudly. Roger felt a sense of pride bubble in the pit of his stomach and he couldn't help the smirk he gave against Merridew's lips.

 

The kisses slowed, becoming more gentle and with each one, the boys drew farther and farther away from each other. Once they broke apart, they took a moment to stare at each other, each breathing heavily with flushed cheeks. Merridew grabbed Roger's hand and stood, pulling the other boy up with him. Their lips collided again, this time the kisses more hungry and savage, filled with bruising lips and teeth and tongues. They walked over to the patch of grass, not breaking apart from their lip lock. Merridew shoved at Roger's shoulder, making him stumble to the ground. Before he could even comprehend what was happening, Roger felt Merridew's weight pinning him in place and a pair of bruising lips covering his own. Merridew's nails scraped down Roger's sides, making the boy arch up and let out a throaty moan. He propped himself up on his elbows, trying to regain some sort of control, but Merridew's body continued to keep him in place.

 

He felt a pair of lips latch on to his neck, biting harshly. The sharpness of Merridew's teeth combined with the crushing weight of his form created enough pain for Roger to cry out harshly. He liked the pain, he liked how Merridew hurt him and the roughness of his friend's touch. Almost upon instinct, Roger rolled his hips up to meet Jack's, making the boy above him groan. He felt a pair of cool hands run across the smooth skin of his stomach, lifting his shirt to expose more and more pale skin. Roger sat up just enough to throw off his shirt, completely exposing the rest of his torso. Within a moment, a pair of hungry lips had latched onto his collarbone, placing harsh kisses along the skin there. Roger felt Merridew's sharp teeth dig into his skin, making him howl in a mix of pain and pleasure. He could feel a trail of liquid run down his skin, and realized that Jack had drawn blood. He felt his friend's rough tongue running along his collarbone, lapping up the drops of scarlet, making Roger give off another throaty moan.

 

He couldn't remember when these rendezvous with Merridew had begun. As far as Roger was concerned, they had spent their entire friendship endeavoring in sexual acts with one and other. When they were in their earliest years of primaries, Roger distinctly remembered holding Jack's hand under the work tables and placing kisses along the freckled boy's cheeks. As they grew older, sometime around their tenth year, they experimented with little kisses, just small pecks on the lips that were as innocent as anything could be. When they were twelve they practiced making out on each other, which they argued wasn't anything of the queer nature, it was just for practice so that they'd know what they were doing when the time came to kiss girls. When they were thirteen they discovered alcohol, which turned Merridew into a horny bugger and he would grope and palm Roger through his clothes, still arguing that he wasn't queer and what he did drunk didn't count.

 

Roger knew what he was. There was no denying the fact that he was a poof, plain and simple. Mates didn't use each other for gay experimenting and enjoy the sensations their sexual endeavors brought up. It wasn't that Roger had feelings for Merridew, but he did have a great amount of respect and devotion for the chief and he wasn't one to deny pleasure when it was offered. The nice thing about Roger's twisted relationship with Merridew was not only the mutual respect towards each other or the lack of intimidation, but the fact that there were no romantic feeling attached. They used each other's bodies as toys to get off on, just little play things to fulfill their own libidos' instead of partners to cherish. Roger had never been one for mushy romance, anyway. Still, Merridew's denial of his sexuality during their first few years of high school was agitating. Not that Roger had any intentions of being boyfriends with Merridew, but he still wanted to hear his friend admit that he was, in fact, a queer. Although he never out right said he was a fairy, Merridew did stop denying his interest in people of his same sex, and perhaps he wasn't fully homosexual because there was no denying that he had a least a bit of interest in women. Roger didn't really understand attraction to any degree until he saw the dark boy for the first time. No one before that had ever caught his interest and the only reason he continued to preform sexual acts with Merridew was because they felt better than his right hand.

 

Roger felt Merridew's lips on his again, his hand cupping the other boy through his jeans. He threw his head back and arched up into the other's touch, loving the way Merridew's warm hands worked at him through his clothes. Roger could feel the heat radiating off the boy above him, his warm breath and overheated skin fighting off the coolness of the night air with every jerk of his hips. Roger bucked his hips up into Merridew's hand, suddenly needing more friction. He gave Merridew's throat a squeeze, making the boy above him let out a strange concoction between a growl and a moan. Roger smirked, a sense of pride swelling in his chest until he was torn down by another harsh bite on the juncture between his neck and shoulder. He knew he was bleeding, how could he not be with how hard Jack had bitten him? He went to touch the spot, only to have his hand batted away by Merridew, who was running his tongue along the wound once again.

 

He felt Merridew trail a line of sloppy, open mouthed kisses down his torso, stopping to nip at Roger's skin every so often. He placed a soft kiss to Roger's hipbone then slowly trailed his tongue to the waist band of his trousers. Roger could hear his breath grow heavier the closer Merridew got to his crotch, his thighs quivering at the thought of his dick being engulfed in Merridew's mouth. He felt another harsh bite just below his hip, a tender place that make Roger mewl like a whore. He felt Merridew smirk against his skin, the cheeky bastard, and roam his tongue over the bruise. He felt Merridew place kisses to his bulge, through his jeans and underwear and Roger tugged at the ginger curls, his nails digging into the chief's scalp.

 

He propped himself up on his elbows once again, watching as Jack popped the button on his trousers and shimmed them down Roger's legs. He licked a stripe up Roger's bulge, through the thin layer of underwear, making the boy cry out lewdly and tug at Merridew's hair a second time. For a moment, he felt Merridew's body weight lift, leaving Roger half naked in the cool nighttime air. He felt chills go down his spine as the wind brushed against his bare skin and he locked eyes with Merridew, both of their expressions unreadable.

 

Before he had the time to react, he felt himself getting flipped on his stomach, his rear in the air as Merridew laid a firm slap on the skin. Roger cried out, arching and throwing his head back just enough for Merridew to grab a fistful of his hair. He could feel Merridew kneel behind him, the chief's bulge prodding against Roger's arse. He tried to push back against Merridew in an attempt to gain more friction, but his efforts were met with another slap on the rear and a rough tug on his hair. Roger could feel his thighs quivering underneath him, hardly having the strength to support his own weight. He felt the palms of Merridew's hands squeeze his arse and Roger moaned just a bit, trying his best not to give Merridew the satisfaction of hearing his cries of pleasure.

 

The grip on Roger's hair was released for a moment as he heard the shuffling of clothes being removed from behind him. Within a matter of seconds, a pair of hands were tugging down his boxers, completely exposing Roger to the breeze and sending prickles across his skin. Merridew's fingers wove into his hair once again, giving a firm tug to pull Roger's head up. The chief pushed his middle and index finger into Roger's mouth, giving the silent demand to slick them up with saliva. The boy complied, running his tongue along both fingers hungrily, coating them each with a fair amount of lubrication. He heard Merridew groan and push his front into Roger's behind, trying to shag him through the thin layer of clothing Jack was still wearing. Roger pushed back, trying to meet the chief half way with his shallow thrusts and rolls of his hips. Finally, Merridew took his fingers out of Roger's mouth and slid them down to the other boy's arsecrack. Slowly, he pushed a finger inside, giving Roger a bit of time to adjust to the sensation.

 

After a moment, Jack began moving the finger, essentially fucking Roger with it and occasionally brushing against the boy's prostate. Roger tried his best to keep up with Jack's motions, moving his hips in sync with his friend's movements to the best of his ability. Not too long after, Merridew added the second finger, making a scissoring motion with the two in an attempt to stretch Roger out. The other boy let out soft moans and sighs, letting Merridew know that he was doing a sufficient enough job. Another smack landed on Roger's rear, making him arch and whine. His bum was starting to burn and he wouldn't have been surprised if the skin was pink for a few days after the event. Soon, Merridew's fingers were replaced with his tongue, the tip swirling around Roger's entrance. He lapped at the ring of muscles and nerves, making Roger groan at the sensation. It was rare for Merridew to eat him out, the kind of thing he only did when he was too intoxicated to remember it the next day. He heard the chief groan behind him, the vibrations sending a jolt of electricity up Roger's body.

 

After a moment, Merridew's tongue disappeared and his hand was gripping the back of Roger's head, pushing his face into the grass with force. He let out a sound of surprise, which, admittedly, sounded like a girly squeak. Another slap hit across the top of Roger's arse, making him buck his hips. He heard the distinct sound of Merridew spitting into his hand before the first few inches of Merridew's cock pushed inside Roger's entrance. He inhaled sharply, the sensation starting out painful , but quickly becoming really, really good. Merridew snapped his hips, making him completely bottom out inside Roger, who only pushed his arse back in retaliation.

 

Jack's hand fisted Roger's dick, making the boy groan lewdly and dig his nails into the ground, pulling up handfuls of grass. He felt Merridew's cock brush by his sensitive spot, making the boy jerk and sputter and cry out in pleasure. With every snap of Merridew's hips, Roger could feel a coil of heat tighten in his core, making him shake and sweat with anticipation. He could feel the warmth of Jack's body moving over him, his hot breath on the back of Roger's neck as he so crudely thrusted inside him. The fingers woven into Roger's hair gave another harsh tug as a pair of teeth sunk into a particularly tender spot on his neck. Roger growled, pushing his hips back to fuck himself on Merridew's cock. In his ear, he could hear Merridew's low grunts and groans from the sensations. Ever so slowly, the coiled ball of heat began to unravel, making the pace of Roger's breath pick up as a struggled moan escaped his lips. Merridew gripped his dick, pumping it to make Roger cum faster. Within a matter of seconds, the coil unraveled, leaving Roger a panting mess as he melted into Merridew's hands. White ribbons of his bodily fluids shot from the tip of his dick, coating the grass and Merridew's hand with his genetic material. After a few shallow thrusts, Merridew followed his lead, letting his fluids release into Roger's arse.

 

Both boys collapsed, exhausted. After a moment of lazily laying in the grass, Merridew rolled off of Roger and onto his back. Once free from his friend's crushing body weight, Roger began lifting himself off the ground to pull his clothes back on. Merridew followed his lead, but nor before lighting a cigarette and taking a few long drags. Before Jack began getting dressed, Roger had already finished and managed to tame the wild state Merridew had left his hair. Jack offered Roger the cigarette, holding it up to his mouth and allowing the boy to take a deep drag from it. They layed on the grass in silence for a bit, passing cigarette after cigarette back and forth between the two of them and staring up at the stars.

 

“Were you thinking about him?” Roger asked, not taking his gaze away from the night sky. His voice held a gruffness to it due to the smoke filling his lungs. Merridew turned his gaze to him, his expression somewhere between shocked and confused. The silence that lasted between them held and intensity to it that feigned from their usual comfortable one. After a moment, Roger heard Merridew sigh and watched as he flicked a lighter to life, another cigarette trapped between his teeth. He took his time lighting it and even longer to let the smoke fill his lungs. Roger didn't say a word as he witnessed Merridew blew a cloud of smoke into the night air. When he put the cigarette back up to his lips, Roger briefly considered the possibility that he wasn't going to answer the question.

 

“Yes.” Merridew said at last, the smoke billowing out of his mouth, bits of it wafting across Roger's face. He shouldn't have felt a betrayed as he did. His feeling toward Merridew didn't go farther than using his body as a tool to get off on, and yet it was as if a knife had slashed across his chest. He didn't want Jack for himself, he didn't want a relationship. Still, he hated the idea of Merridew thinking of someone else during their sexual endeavors, like he wasn't enough to get off on by just being himself. And perhaps Roger was being a bit too oversensitive. It wasn't as though he cared for Merridew. His friendship with the chief was built off of general respect for his character along with convenience instead of genuine attachment. However, because of the great deal of respect Roger held for Merridew, it was crushing to realize that the feeling wasn't mutual. Jack would rather fuck the pretty, golden boy, and Roger realized that, but still, he wanted to at least be enough for the time being. Which was why he couldn't help the bitter scoff the erupted from the back of his throat, making Merridew quirk a fiery brow in his direction.

“Guess my arse isn't good enough, eh chief?” He asked, his tone mocking and sarcastic. He hadn't really expected his words to wound Merridew, but he had expected some sort of reaction. Needless to say, he found himself getting angrier when all he received as a reply was a slight shrug of the shoulders. In a wave of anger and bitterness, Roger decided to continue. “Maybe if I were perfect and blond-”

 

“Maybe if you were.” Merridew interuppted, his glare cold, a frustrating offset to Roger's fire. He felt something errupt in his chest as a wave of heat rushed to his face and made him want to tear out his hair. He didn't get a chance to shout back a reply before Merridew continued. “Maybe if you were anyone but yourself, I could be attracted to you. Maybe if the only reason I bothered to shag you wasn't because of convience then I wouldn't have to think of the golden boy. Maybe if you weren't so _fucking repulsive_ -” Merridew's last sentence was abrubtly cut off by a hard slap acorss the face. Within an instant, Roger had pounced on him, his fist coming down repeatedly against Merridew's skin

 

Just as fast as he had pounced, he was flipped over onto his back, a fist connecting with his jaw as a hand squeezed harshly at his windpipe. He felt his body kick and spasm at the lack of oxygen and tried to land a hit to Merridew's sternum. That attempt wasn't successful, but somehow Roger managed to bring his knee up to Merridew's groin, making the boy above him let out an uncharacteristic squeak as he tumbled off his place atop Roger's body. With a smug smile from the victory, Roger stood, kicking Merridew's rib cage hard enough to heard the soft _crack_ under his foot. With a cry of pain, he felt an intense burning sensation on the top of his bare foot, watching as Merridew put out his cigarette on Roger's skin. Ignoring the pain on his foot, he landed a punch to Merridew's stomach.

 

“You bloody fucking-” Roger was cut off by a knee to the ribs and rolled over onto his back, Merridew pinning his arms above his head.

 

“I think it's time you go home.” Merridew said, his voice barely above a whisper. Roger glared at him, the silence between the two deafening.

 

“Fine.” Roger spit, pushing the taller boy off of him. Without so much as slipping on his shoes, Roger fled from the Merridew household, slamming the door behind him.

 


	4. Cemetery Drive

Simon awoke at eleven o'clock that morning with a throbbing pain nestled in his head. Upon sitting up, he immediately felt a wave nausea pass over him, making his right hand slap over his mouth in the off chance that he would throw up. He took a moment to glance around the room, finding himself on the floor of the twin's sitting room surrounded by the sleeping bodies of his friends. The television had been left on, causing Simon to believe that he and his mates had passed out while one of Ralph's God awful horror movies were playing. He didn't remember much about the night, however, considering everything that happened after having met Roger was a blur. The soft morning light peaking through the screen door was too much for Simon to handle. Upon first glance at even the slightest hint of sunlight, he felt pain shoot through the side of his head.

 

Slowly, in both an attempt to not wake anyone and out of courtesy for the dizziness in his limbs, Simon began to stand, creeping over to the twin's bathroom. He shut the door slowly, trying his best not to make any noise, before turning on the sink facet. He splashed the cool water in his face, the temperature stinging his senses back to life and jolting his brain out of its partial hibernation. The nausea had somewhat faded, but the pain in his head seemed to be making no effort to subdue itself. He pressed his middle and index fingers to his temple, rubbing in slow circles as he tried to calm the ache. He didn't recall drinking that much but then again, he didn't really recall a lot of anything.

 

He glanced down at himself, finding that he had fallen asleep in his clothes from the previous day, which consisted of a gray t-shirt and a pair of cargo shorts. He groped around the shorts pockets, trying to detect the location of his phone. Once he found it, the jarring light from the screen caused Simon to wince as the pain in his head only seemed to grow. He let his eyes adjust for a moment before bothering to check his notifications. Much to his surprise, he had six new messages, which was odd considering all of Simon's closest friends had been at the twin's party. There were, of course, the two from his mother, telling him “good night” and “good morning” but the other four were from a new contact.

 

To say Simon was baffled would be a bit of an understatement. It wasn't so much that he hadn't expected this person to talk to him, he just hadn't expected it so suddenly. Their first meeting had only been the day before and although their conversation hadn't been the longest or more philosophical Simon had ever had, it was certainly a lot for a first encounter. Along with that, the boy hadn't been very much of a talker, which was a bit awkward at first considering Simon was a rather quiet lad himself, so he hadn't expected to hear from him so soon.

 

**From: Roger <3**

 

_This is really fckin stupid, but I'm also really drunk_

_so I feel like I have the courage to ask you this._

 

**From: Roger <3**

 

_Look, you're really fckin cute and I can't stop_

_thinking about you_

 

**From: Roger <3**

 

_Holy shit, that was cliché. But it's the truth_

 

**From: Roger <3**

 

_I just really want to take you out on a date_

_and that's not even my drunk brain talking_

_bc you're so fckin adorable and I just really_

_want to kiss you a lot._

 

Immediately upon reading the messages Simon felt his face flush. He pondered the concept of kissing Roger and, although it was a pleasant one, it struck a chord of fear within him. Dates were something Simon was unfamiliar with, but kissing was entirely new territory. Perhaps that was a bit pathetic at sixteen years and he was certain that all his other friends -with the exception of Peter, perhaps- had quite a bit of experience in the area. Of course he had thought about things beyond kissing plenty of time, mostly while searching the internet at three o'clock in the morning, hidden under a pile of his blankets and trying his best not to let any noises escape from his lips, but that didn't stop the concept of doing anything even remotely sexual with another person any less intimidating. He had always avoided physical contact with others, the concept of touching another person to be both uncomfortable and pointless, so until just the day before he had never so much as held hands with another person. Running his hand up Roger's inner thigh had been a daring move, and one that Simon felt embarrassed about immediately after. When he was pulled into Roger's arms, that was even newer territory and although Simon wasn't necessarily uncomfortable with the action, it did leave him wondering if he had been to stiff and awkward pressed against the other boy.

 

He took a moment to contemplate his choices. He could flat out ignore Roger's proposal, which could potentially result in a mess of hurt feelings and possible disconnect and Simon had no intention of starting any drama. He could also tell Roger that he was too hungover to go out on a date, which wasn't really lying , but it also wasn't he his reason for turning down Roger's offer. Of course, he didn't think he'd be able to handle going out on a date, what with his massive hangover and his overall introverted nature. Those didn't seem like the best combination for a proper, well ending date and he didn't want to be grumpy and irritable in front of a potential partner.

 

He took another moment to consider the phrase “potential partner.” It was no secret that Simon had the beginnings of a crush forming on Roger and he was more than a little interested in learning more about the other boy, but the idea of putting a label on his intentions was a tad uncomfortable. Calling Roger a friend wouldn't be the right phrasing, either, and saying he was a crush seemed juvenile. The more Simon thought about it, the more he didn't like any of the labels he could come up with. He weighed the possibility that he didn't have to put a label to their relationship yet, considering that they hardly knew each other, and yet the idea that there was no label caused Simon just as much unease.

 

He glanced back at his phone, rereading Roger's messages in an attempt to figure out how to respond. He was quite hungover, but his headache wasn't anything Tylenol and a glass of water couldn't fix. Without another bit of hesitation, Simon typed out his reply.

 

**To: Roger <3**

 

_I'd love to! I'm free today, if you'd like to_

_go out sometime this afternoon._

 

With shaking fingers, Simon hit send. He slumped to the floor, the bathroom tiles cold against his skin as he pulled his knees to his chest. Before long, he heard the distinct sound of his phone vibrating. He stared at it for a moment, contemplating as to whether or not he should check the message. Going out with Roger suddenly seemed like a terrifying concept and he wondered if there were any way he could squirm his way out of the obligation. Reasonably, he knew there wasn't an out that wouldn't result in either a painful lie of dropping all contact with the other boy, and neither option seemed very glamorous. Slowly, he reached for his phone, sliding the lock open to check the message.

 

By the time Simon emerged from the bathroom, fully dressed in a fresh set of clothing, the rest of his friends had started to awake, all groaning about the pain in their heads. Simon flashed them all sympathetic smiles before bending down to gather his things.

 

“Off somewhere?” Ralph asked, making the muscles in Simon's shoulders tense. He glanced at his friend before giving a quick nod in reply. He didn't remember most of the previous night, but he could recall how upset Peter had been when Simon portrayed his feelings for Roger. Not that he could really blame the fat boy for getting worked up, Roger did used to bully Peter quite a bit, after all, but Simon couldn't help to over look the torment that occurred in primary school. Of course he cared about his friend's concerns, but it seemed as though Peter were always worried about one thing or another and frankly, Simon couldn't keep up.

 

“Mum needs me home,” He lied, immediately feeling guilty for lying to his friends. “She says I've been out too long.” It wasn't the most preposterous idea, really. Simon's mother was notorious for being a bit strict, if not over protective and his friends were very much aware of that. In all honesty, his mother probably _did_ want him home, so it wasn't technically a lie, it just wasn't the entire truth. Ralph nodded and offered to give him a hand with his possessions. Once he finished packing up and slipping on his trainers, the twin's walked him outside, waving their farewells as he trekked down the pavement.

 

The walk would have been a pleasant one if not for the still horrendous pain jabbing at his head. The sun, although mostly covered by gray storm clouds, peaked through the small cracks in the sky almost as if it were purposely trying to get the rays in Simon's eyes. Otherwise, it was comfortably warm with the gentlest of breezes ruffling his thick, dark hair. He arrived at the destination Roger had set for them a few minutes before noon, just a bit early. He found himself face to face with a cast iron gate looking into fields of dead grass and black clothing. Headstones littered the ground, seeming to sprout like mushroom heads as mourning people dressed in shades of black placed flowers beside them. Hesitantly, Simon pushed open the gate, making sure that he had, in fact, arrived at the correct address. He checked the message Roger had sent him, looking over the numbers and street name glowing on the screen. They matched the address of the cemetery, making Simon grimace a bit at Roger's choice of location.

 

He took a bit of a stroll through the grounds, reading the names off each headstone and trying to come up with a plausible story for each one. He was sad to find that many of the deceased were children between the ages of infantry and seventeen. For those stories he went to the most brutal places, such as bloody murders done by psychopaths and unfortunate car accidents that resulted in splattered brains. Before long, he came to an archway made of marble. There he saw Roger, sitting cross-legged under a shaded spot, smoking a cigarette. They met eyes, Simon seemingly frozen in his place as Roger watched him with intensity. Step by step, Simon began to move his feet again, suddenly feeling overwhelmed and anxious. He sat next to the other boy, his nostrils being assaulted by the scent of cigarette smoke as they sat in silence. He couldn't help but look away from Roger as he stared across the fields of the dead, blowing puffs of smoke into the air. His dark green eyes held an intensity to them that set Simon at unease.

 

“This is one of my favorite places.” Roger said, breaking the silence, but building the intensity. He still hadn't bothered to look in Simon's direction, but instead focused on the graveyard. His voice was gravelly and gruff, most likely from the smoke filling his lungs. Simon couldn't help but find the sound attractive. He place his hand atop Roger's bicep, making the other boy turn to look at him. His eyes held the same intensity, making Simon involuntarily shiver. There was something about all that emotion directed at him that caused heat to rise in the pit of his stomach, spreading to his cheeks and neck. He could feel his chest tighten as something in his sternum fluttered uncontrollably. He opened his mouth slightly, realizing that his breathing had somehow gotten heavier.

 

“Why's that?” He asked, not intending for the questions to come out as a whisper. He watched as the corner of Roger's lips tilted up in a smirk and he flicked away the butt of his cigarette. He tilted his head ever so slightly to the side, his eyes searching Simon's face. The smaller boy's breath hitched.

 

 

“It's quiet. I don't get a lot of that at my house.” Without taking his eyes off Simon's, he pulled out another cigarette and lit it swiftly, taking a long drag before tilting his head up to the sky to blow out the puff of smoke.

 

“What about when people come here to mourn?” Simon asked, watching closely as Roger turned his head back to the field. He glanced at Simon out of the corner of his eye, quirking a dark brow.

 

“What about them?” He asked. Simon took a moment before answering to watch the wisps of smoke trail from the lit end of the cigarette up into the air.

 

“Doesn't it disturb your silence?” The smirk on Roger's face widened as he put the cigarette back up to his lips. He blew the smoke from before turning back to Simon, their faces close enough for the tips of their noses to brush against one and other. He could smell the smoke one Roger's breath, which would have normally been unpleasant, but was instead intoxicating. He had to force his gaze to break away from Roger's lips to stare into his eyes. They were filled with a sick sort of merriment that should have left a queasy feeling in Simon's stomach, but instead left him wanting to know the feeling of Roger's lips against his own.

 

“Do you want to hear something sadistic?” Roger whispered, his warm breath on Simon's cheek. The smaller boy felt his breath hitch and he gave a quick, small nod. He watched as the smirk dancing across Roger's lips grew into something less amused and more cruel. It was then that Simon realized what the intensity in Roger's eyes reminded him of, and the clarity made his heartbeat pound in his chest. The intensity mixed with the Cheshire smirk was something to be viewed as villainous, sadistic, and disturbing. “I like watching people mourn. I like seeing their suffering.” His voice was low and dangerous and -dare Simon say it- completely and utterly sexy. Almost in slow motion, he watch Roger lean his head in, inching closer and closer to capture Simon's lips between his own. In a moment of panic, Simon turned his head to the side, making Roger's lips hit his cheek instead. The other boy stayed there for a moment before slowly moving his lips up to Simon's ear. “Are you afraid of me?” He whispered.

 

Simon flinched away, creating a comfortable amount of space between them. He gave himself a moment to let his heart rate calm down before taking a shaky breath. He turned to look back at Roger, whose expression had hardened as he took another drag of the cigarette. He opened his mouth to say something, but quickly snapped his jaw shut again from the haunting look on Roger's face. He swallowed thickly and stared down at his feet. He knew that, reasonably, this whole thing had been a bad idea and that he shouldn't have even agreed to the date, but he couldn't convince himself to leave. He wanted to stay, to learn more about the intimidating boy in front of him.

 

“You used to be in choir.” He stated, distinctly remembering the same black hair and the intense green eyes from his years as a singer. Roger nodded before flicking away the cigarette. “Are you still a singer?” He asked in a desperate attempt to make normal conversation. Roger scoffed and shook his head, as if it were the most preposterous idea he had ever heard.

 

“No, hymnals and block togs aren't really my thing anymore. I do play a few instruments, though.” His expression had softened, leaving him with the beginnings of a grin and a sort of amused look in his eyes.

 

“What do you play?” Simon asked, scooting closer with fascination. Roger took a moment to stare at him, searching his eyes for anything that might indicate a joke. Simon stared back, trying to match his intensity.

 

“Piano,” He said after a moment. “guitar, violin, bass -both upright and electric, a bit of flute, saxophone, and drums.” Simon stared at him, wide-eyed. He noticed a few strands of black hair had fallen into Roger's eyes and, without putting much thought into the action, he slowly reached up to brush away the hairs. He stared into Roger's eyes, suddenly realizing how close they were actually sitting and how easy it would be to close the space between their lips. After a moment, he retracted his hand from Roger's forehead and averted his eyes, clearing his throat in an attempt to break the tension. He glance back at Roger through the corner of his eye, noticing that the hard expression had once again crossed his features. Simon felt the hammering in his heart press against his sternum at a rapid rate. He could feel Roger's finger's tightening around his waist. When had he put his hands on Simon's waist? He felt the other's lips against his ear, voice gruff and low. “You're such a fucking tease.”

 

He felt his body being pulled closer to Roger's, their lips smashing together in a kiss that was nothing but built up frustration and rage. Simon felt the other boy's teeth dig into his lower lip, pulling harshly at the skin. He let out a noise that was alien to his ears, a sound he had never once made in his life in front of another person. He _moaned_. And it wasn't a small squeak of a moan that he would occasionally slip out while giving himself personal gratification, but something a lot louder, something that made his cheeks flush with embarrassment the second his slips past his lips. For a second, Simon considered pulling away out of sheer mortification, but the feeling of Roger's lips attacking his own was too _good_ , and perhaps the heat in his cheeks wasn't from embarrassment, but something else entirely.

 

He could feel calloused fingers weave into his hair, giving the strands a sharp tug that made Simon gasp and squirm in Roger's arms. The bruising lips covering his own were warm and rough, the skin slightly chapped. Simon pressed his body closer to Roger's, in need of his warmth regardless of the summer day. He felt the other boy's tongue swipe across his lip as Roger's fingernails dug into his hip bones, making Simon gasp. The second his lips parted, Roger's tongue plunged into Simon's mouth, stroking his own and exploring the crevice. The sensation, at first, felt strangely slimy and foreign to Simon, making his nose crinkle in discontent. He had heard a bit about that sort of kissing, but having experienced it, he didn't fully understand the appeal. However, once he managed to adjust to the feeling, he began to melt into the kisses, allowing himself to let out the little noises of approval.

 

“God, you're so fucking hot,” Roger murmured against his lips, making Simon hum in response. “Keep making those noises, babe.” Upon hearing those words, Simon felt his blood drain from his cheeks and rush to lower regions in his body. He climbed into Roger's lap, straddling the other boy in an attempt to gain friction. He began rutting his hips against the other's, making Roger growl in response. He felt the other pull his hips down, rutting up against the crease of Simon's bum, trying to shag him through clothes. Simon whined and ground back against him, the flush returning to every area of his body. He gasped when he felt Roger cup him through his shorts, palming him with the heal of his hand. Simon could feel his body quivering under his touch, having never experienced such acts before.

 

His friends liked to joke about how much of a “clueless virgin” he made out to be, but frankly the tended to overestimate just how innocent actually was. He knew about most sexual acts, had no problems hearing about them, and even watched porn from time to time. Just like any other sixteen year old boy, Simon did, in fact, masturbate. Because of these reasons, he never considered himself to be particularly clueless, regardless of the fact that he was a virgin. However, after actually experiencing someone touching those areas of his body, after feeling lips against his own and a hard cock rutting up against his bum, it was safe to say that he was incredibly clueless. Sure, he knew a bit about sexual acts themselves and how those sorts of things happened, but he had no idea how to react to the feelings going through his body. He couldn't, for the life of him, figure out what to do as Roger palmed him through his clothes. He liked it, he knew that much. He liked the roughness of Roger's hands, the feeling of the other's boy's teeth against his skin, forming bruises on his neck. He liked the friction they created. And he _really_ liked it when Roger wrapped a hand around his neck and squeezed.

 

And suddenly, all the stimulation stopped entirely. There was no longer a pair of lips on his neck, or a hand on his dick, just sharp green eyes staring into his own and the sounds of heavy breathing from both parties. Simon stayed perched on Roger's lap in the slight hope that they would start again, that maybe he would get some release, but he had no such luck. Just a lot of staring at one and other.

 

“Why did you stop?” Simon asked, his voice hoarse and small. He watched as Roger ran his teeth over his bottom lip, not taking his eyes away from the smaller boy.

 

“If I continued than I wouldn't be able to control myself.” He said, his voice sounding the slightest bit on edge, almost as if he were scared of something. Simon studied his face, finding no sign of fear, just burning desire.

 

“Who asked you to?” He asked, watching as Roger's lips tilted up in a smirk. Gently, he pushed Simon off his lap, reaching for his pack of cigarettes and his lighter as he stood. He took a long drag, stepping away from his spot on the grass before blowing a cloud of smoke into the sky. He crouched down in front of Simon, their faces centimeters apart.

 

“Save that for the second date.” He said, before leaning in to give Simon one last peck on the lips. He watched for a moment, awestruck, as Roger walked away, a cloud of smoke trailing behind him.

 

“I was wrong about something,” He shouted, making Roger stop to glance over his shoulder. “You weren't compensating for anything.” He watched as the other boy grinned, putting the cigarette back up to his lips.

 

“Only the first date and you already know I have a big dick,” He said, mostly murmuring to himself. He glanced back at Simon, fully turning his body around. “I'll see you later, gorgeous.”

 


	5. Coffee House

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little shorter than the others... whoops

Ralph found himself in a coffee shop Sunday morning. It was early when he originally woke up, sometime in the morning when the sun had just begun to peak over the horizon, coloring the sky with shades of orange and red. It was overcast, like how England tends to be during any time of the year, and the smell of rain flooded Ralph's nostrils when he stepped foot outside. Somewhere in the back of his head was a throbbing pain that could only be cured by the miracle of caffeine. Ralph had found that he had sprouted a bit of an addiction to his morning coffee, noticing that he was completely unable to function if he didn't get at least one cup of the bitter liquid in his system. It had become habit to get up sometime around five o'clock in the morning during the school year so that he could get the opportunity to go for his morning run, stop by his favorite coffee house, and make breakfast all before his first lesson. It had become such a routine that even after his summer holiday had started and he had the entire day to do as he pleased, he still continued his early bird trend. The line, although short, moved very slowly, which was to no surprise considering the poor employees were filled to the brim with sleep deprivation. Ralph didn't blame them. It was a ridiculously early time to go into work and frankly he didn't think he'd want to work their hours, either.

 

His usual coffee shop wasn't anything special. It was a run down building near the park where he went running that served drinkable coffee at best. The employees were almost always tired and disinterested, as if they couldn't give a damn about you or your coffee order. If Ralph were to be fair, they probably didn't and he wouldn't either if he worked in a place like that. He ended up ordering a black coffee, twenty ounces, as an attempt to fix the bags under his eyes. Although he hadn't managed to get much sleep the last few days, he was buzzing with energy from the morning run. However, it would only be so long until the adrenaline would crash and he would be a walking zombie.

 

He stayed in the coffee house for an little while, taking small sips of his beverage every now and then and watching the few people disperse themselves. Ralph found that people watching was one of his many guilty pleasures. He just thought it to be fascinating, watching the way others interacted among themselves in their humdrum little lives. Slowly, as time ticked by, more people began to fill the run down coffee shop, filling the silent spaces with their insufferable noise. Ralph continued to watch, wishing Peter were by his side, just for the sake of hearing the fat boy complain about the inherent selfishness of human nature. Ralph wasn't sure if he agreed with that, but he did find most people to be rather bland and run of the mill. Everyone was dressed in an array of blacks and grays, all with their brown or blonde hair pushed back due to the heat, holding the same cups of coffee and asking the same boring questions. The entire building was filled with “hello's” and “how are you's” that all seemed so forced. Ralph never understood the concept of going out of your way just to speak to someone you don't even like, to have the most shallow and boring conversation imaginable. Nothing about that seemed endearing.

 

The blur of similarities were interrupted quickly by a patch of curly, red hair wandering through the crowd. Ralph recognized that red hair, the same fiery shade that he's know since his primary years all too well. Slowly, as the crowd surrounding the counter dispersed more and more the vision of the figure belonging to the thatch of fiery hair become more clear. Ralph found himself staring down at pale, almost ghostly white, skin covered in layers of little brown freckles. A pair of narrow, icy blue eyes were facing the counter, the intensity of them burning holes into the direction they were looking. Ralph could feel the tightening in his sternum increase, making his breath hitch in his throat. A recognizable name continued to pass through his head, leaving a foul taste on the surface of his tongue.

 

 _Merridew_ , Ralph thought, making every muscle in his being tense. _Bloody fucking Merridew._

 

He tried his hardest to avert his gaze from the scene, tried not to study Merridew's every move as he ordered his drink. But for whatever reason, Ralph was completely enamored with the other boy. He couldn't take his eyes off the way Merridew's muscles's moved as he shifted in his place. The way his shoulders slumped and the harsh angles of his face seemed to twist with every word he spoke. There was a sense of disinterest in his posture and the way his lips quirked down as those icy blue eyes ceased to study their surroundings. He was bored, Ralph decided, realizing that he was leaning on the edge of his seat, his cup of coffee completely forgotten. Merridew was bored out of his damn wits, that much was obvious. His air of arrogance had significantly increased, giving off the impression that he considered himself to be above the others inside the shop. He probably did, Ralph figured. It was Merridew, after all -the boy saw himself as above everyone.

 

When Merridew's head begun to turn in Ralph's direction, the fair boy quickly averted his gaze, dashing for his cup of coffee and trying his best to look as though he wasn't just staring. The attempt was futile, however, because their eyes met, Merridew's seeming to stare directly into Ralph's soul. The fair boy felt a chill travel up his spine, making his posture stiffen and his muscles tighten. It seemed to take an eternity for their eye contact to break as Ralph fought the urge to flee from the place. Reasonably, he knew there was no need to leave. The chances of Merridew actually bothering to talk to him were very slim and even if some sort of conversation did arise between the two of them, Ralph doubted it would be an unpleasant one. After all, they had reached a silent agreement to rarely ever speak to one and other and if words were exchanged, they would be both minimal and professional. They were not friends, not even acquaintances, really, and the less they spoke the better.

 

However, it would be ignorant of Ralph not to address the feelings of both panic and intrigue the simple sight of those fiery red curls brought to his attention. He had found himself contemplating Merridew's very existence quite a bit since the twin's sleepover and he wasn't sure if he liked the things his mind came up with. In a way, he admired Merridew and his air of self entitlement and arrogance. Although both were frustrating beyond belief, Ralph also found that the same things that made him despise Merridew also made the red headed boy so fascinating. Every now and then, when Ralph was feeling particularly existential and contemplative, he found himself wondering what the purpose of his existence was and how he could find a way to deliver that purpose. Recently, his mind had begun to wander to Merridew during those times, and the way that the other boy seemed to make his own purpose. Generally when an adult thought of someone like Merridew, they considered him to be a lost cause, as if he weren't going anywhere in life. Ralph tended to disagree with that statement. To him, Merridew had a sort of way about him that allowed him to bend the world around his own reality. He made his own path with his very own sets of rules to follow. In a way, Ralph was envious. His life had been planned out for him and he didn't have the skill to break away from the expectations that had been set in stone from the day he was born.

 

“Jesus Waterman, you look like you're gonna drop dead.” The voice was cringingly recognizable, making Ralph wince as he took a sip of his coffee. Slowly, he let his eyes wander upward, landing on a freckled, angular face. Much to his embarrassment, Ralph had completely lost track of the world around him while he was busy contemplating Merridew's nature, allowing the red headed deviant to approach the fair boy with out notice. Ralph mentally kicked himself for his own obliviousness, his eyes trained on the boy in front of him. The first thing he noticed was Merridew's height, which towered about the majority of the crowd giving more opportunity to be an intimidator. The next thing that caught Ralph's attention were the other boy's clothes. The fair boy had never seen Merridew in anything besides a school uniform, so the image of him in casual wear was a bit shocking. It was a lot of red, Ralph realized, which wasn't to much surprise. The other boy had on a red t-shirt under a red and orange flannel with sleeves were rolled up to his elbow. His jeans were black with splotches of mud stained the hem and significant tears in the knees. Around his neck held a silver pendant dangling from a black chord. Some sort of image was engraved on the jewelry, but Merridew was standing too far away for Ralph to make it out.

 

“What makes you say that?” He asked, genuinly perplexed by Merridew's statement. He could still feel his joints tingling with energy from the adrenaline pumping through his viens and his didn't think the bags under his eyes were particularly bad. Merridew snorted in response, the sound mocking and sarcastic, making Ralph's cheeks heat up ever so slightly.

 

“Well, for one, you're practically _dripping_ in sweat.” He pointed out, making Ralph glance down at his form. The sweat on his thighs had pooled around the fabric of his joggers, making them stick to his legs and showing off the building muscle underneath the fabric. Ralph did pride himself on his athletic ability mixed with how toned his formerly pudgy body had become and he didn't much mind that the sweat on his skin allowed his clothes to show off how hardened his form had become. The front of his white t-shirt was also drenched, looking as though someone had poured water over him. The wet, see through fabric clung to his torso and allowed any random passerby to see bits of his chest and stomach, which he had also grown to be rather proud of considering how toned it all had become. He caught Merridew's eyes trailing down his figure, suddenly making the pride drain from Ralph's mind and replace itself with modesty. He didn't much like the way Merridew was looking at him, those icy blue eyes filled with hunger and lust.

 

“Do you wanna sit?” Ralph asked, patting the seat next to him as he tried to push aside the feelings of discomfort. He couldn't get the twins words out of his head, drowning in the prospect that Merridew saw him as something other than another stranger on the street, or a former enemy -that Jack pictured him as a potential lover. Merridew nodded and pulled out the chair across from Ralph, setting down his coffee cup with a loud _clunk_. Ralph flinch a bit, his inner ears ringing from the loud noise. When he looked back at Merridew, the other boy's expression remained unchanged. It seemed almost as though he were staring right through Ralph, blue eyes burning holes into golden skin. The silence shared between them was deafening as they sipped their drinks and listened to the sounds around them.

 

“I'm going out for a cigarette,” Merridew announce suddenly, standing from his chair and grabbing his drink. “Would you like to join me?” He raised his brows expectantly at Ralph, who felt heat rush to his cheeks, flushing his skin with pink.

 

“I don't smoke.” He said, his voice much more quiet and meek than he intended. Merridew rolled his eyes, a scornful sort of smirk forming on his face.

 

“Maybe it's time you start.” It felt more like a challenge than a suggestion, really, and Ralph wasn't one to back down from a challenge -especially not one given by Merridew. Which is how he found himself leaned against the wall of his favorite, run-down coffee house, passing a lit cigarette back and forth between himself and Jack bloody Merridew. The smoke let a rotten flavor on his tongue, but something about the nicotine relaxed the tightened muscles in his body and pushed aside the sleepiness starting to form in the back of his head.

 

“Merridew, do you happen to have the time?” He asked, suddenly coming to the realization that the clouds had dispersed and the sky had brightened since he had first woken up. The sun held itself high in the sky, peaking through the patches of puffy white clouds and bearing down a comfortable warmth. Merridew quirked a brow at him, slowly blowing a puff of gray smoke out of the corner of his mouth.

 

“Early as fuck, why?” Ralph rolled his eyes and groped around the pockets of his joggers for his phone.

 

“I left to go running at five and now it's eight thirty. That's about three hours.” At that point, Ralph was talking to himself more than Merridew, trying to calculate the number of calories had managed to burn before he needed to stop for his coffee. He watched as Merridew's cigarette dropped to the ground and as a dirty converse shoe smashed it out on the pavement.

 

“I'll never understand that,” Merridew stated, still staring down at the pavement. Ralph glanced at him, his brows furrowed in confusion. “Why every human being on this planet cares so much about their goddamn fucking appearance.” He pulled another cigarette out of his pocket and lit it swiftly, taking another long inhale before continuing. “I mean, you can hide behind the excuse of trying to stay healthy or in shape for your shitty, shallow sport teams, but be honest with yourself,” Merridew leaned his head back, making the red curls rest against the wall behind them, blowing a long cloud of smoke up into the atmosphere. He turned to Ralph, icy eyes focused on soft features and tanned skin. He eyes roamed over Ralph's body with a look that seemed almost unreadable. He ran his teeth over his bottom lip, making a shiver go up Ralph's spine. “No one stay's that pretty for health reasons.”

 

Ralph felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment. He brought his own cigarette back up to his lips with trembling hands, inhaling deeply and letting the smoke fill his lungs. “Looks are important,” He said, letting the smoke spill out from between his lips. “They're the first thing anyone notices about you and whether you like it or not, Merridew, people judge you based off your looks. Sharp angles and icy blue eyes make you intimidating.” He watched as Merridew's lips stretched into a smirk. He turned to face Ralph, a smug expression written across his features.

 

“I didn't realize he spent so much time studying my looks, Waterman.” He commented, voice snide teasing. The heat returned to Ralph's cheeks and he tried to avert his gaze from Merridew's. He ran his tongue over his lips before proceeding to bring his thumb up to his teeth and bite at the nail, a nervous habit he'd had since childhood. He could feel Merridew's stare on him, but willed himself on not look back -not to give the deviant any sort of satisfaction.

 

“What's your deal?” He asked suddenly, watching with a bit of pride as the smug look on Merridew's face replaced itself with shock. “Why do you insist on saying these weirdly forward and flirtatious things to me? Do you get some sort of sick satisfaction out of seeing me mortified?” The frustration built in the pit of his stomach, making his flush of embarrassment shift into one of anger. Merridew shrugged, his nonchalant attitude making the frustration in Ralph's being only grow.

 

“I just think you're pretty, is all.” He said, putting out his second cigarette against the wall of the building and letting the butt fall to the ground. Ralph watched, every detail in each movement only seeming to intoxicate the fair boy further. Against his every fiber in his being telling him to leave, Ralph took a step closer to Merridew, making it so they only stood mere centimeters apart. If he had listened close enough, perhaps Ralph would've heard the soft hitch in Merridew's breathing. Feeling bold, Ralph allowed all his thoughts since the twin's party to flow into words.

 

“Is it true then? What the twins say? Or is all that complete bullocks?” He asked, making Merridew's brow furrow. He opened his mouth to respond, but Ralph quickly cut him off before he got the chance. “You fancy me, don't you Merridew?” The expression on Jack's face was enough to give the fair boy his answer. He placed his hand on Merridew's chest, pushing the taller boy against the brick of the building and staring up at him through long, golden lashes. They were closer, suddenly -perhaps not even a full centimeter apart from their lips pressing together. Ralph considered how it would feel to properly snog Merridew, whether or not he would enjoy the sensation.

 

He could distinctly recall the first time he properly kissed a girl, sometime toward the end of primary school when he was a mere twelve years old. She was a pretty girl, although Ralph couldn't recall her name, but she snogged rather well and the fair boy remembered squeezing her thigh and making her moan. He had never experienced the same sensation with another boy, never really having bothered to find a suitable partner for such things. However, he wasn't _repulsed_ by the prospect of kissing another lad, it was more that he wasn't sure if he would enjoy kissing _Merridew_ of all possible people. Then again, he felt himself being drawn to the warmth of Merridew's breath against his cheek and enjoyed the way the taller boy was gazing over his sweat slicked form.

 

“Would you like to kiss me, Jack?” Ralph whispered, his lips against Merridew's ear. He let out a squeak of surprise when he felt a pair of strong hands grip harshly at his hip and flip their positions, so that Ralph's back was crushed against the wall. A pair of hungry lips covered his own, teeth biting at skin and a tongue trying to lick its way into Ralph's mouth. The fair boy gasped, giving Merridew the opportunity to plunge his tongue into the other's mouth, shushing his whines of pleasure. Ralph attempted to keep up with the harshness of Merridew's pace, moving his lips with the taller boy's and letting his nails scratch down the other's back, but he was finding himself breathless and losing track of the world around him. Merridew harshly bit at his bottom lip, making Ralph mewl at the feeling of sharp teeth digging into sensitive skin.

 

When Merridew pulled away, Ralph let out a whine of complaint, making the other boy smirk. He felt a thumb hook under his chin and lift his head, making his own dark blue eyes meet with icy ones. He was so close to Merridew's face that he could make out every freckle dotting across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. A childishly playful side of Ralph was tempted to count each one.

 

“I didn't realize you liked me that much, golden boy.” He said, the cockiness in his tone reminding Ralph of why he always found himself so aggitated with Merridew. Ralph scoffed and shoved at Merridew's chest in an attempt to get a bit of breathing room.

 

“Don't give yourself too much credit, Merridew, you caught me off guard.” He said, trying his best to match Merridew's arrogance. The other boy rolled his eyes and placed a quick peck to Ralph's lips, making the pink hue return to his cheeks

 

“I'll see you later, gorgeous.”

 


	6. Temper, Temper

Getting close to Roger proved itself to be a significantly more daunting task than Simon originally entailed. He knew the other boy was guarded, quiet, and intimidating, but he couldn't possibly understand the extent of these qualities until after he began getting to know the boy. He knew Roger had a difficult time sleeping, mostly due to nightmares about traumatic situations he had only begun to explain, and Simon was also aware of his complete lack of interest in just about everything imaginable. But knowing didn't equate to understanding, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't seem to figure the intimidating boy out -not in the least. Neither of them were very big talkers, which left conversation between them to a minimum. Simon didn't much mind. He liked the quiet shared between the two, the comfortable feeling he got whenever they sat next to each other on a warm day and appreciated the landscape. Their dates had become frequent, averaging to about three times a week for the past month in to their summer holiday. They often found themselves at the cemetery holding cigarettes up to each other's lips or making out on Roger's couch while some mindless television program served as background noise. Alone time for the two of them was easy to come by considering Roger's father was never home, a situation toward which the raven haired boy expressed a significant amount of gratitude.

 

Sometime long after the sun had set and the moon rose high in the sky, a mid July breeze rustled through the trees and the smell of rain tainted the air. Clouds covered the stars, only parting enough to let the moon peak out ever so slightly and let the beams fall upon the Earth in a manner that reminded Simon of a twentieth century horror film, something that would most likely involve ghosts or werewolves. The boys sat atop Roger's enlarged window sill, Simon's head resting against the glass as he peered out into the night. Roger's bedroom was dark, not just because of the low natural lighting, but due to the overall mood. The walls were painted black and along the far right hand side decorated with posters of metal bands Simon had never heard of and framed pictures of darkened landscaped.

 

A single corner of the room was dedicated to his love of music with an electric guitar leaning against the wall and two amps set up on either side of the instrument. Littered around those focal points were cases for other various instruments along with an electric keyboard on top of a black stand. To Simon's left was a skateboard hung along the wall with fishing wire and metal hooks. The decorative side of the board was bloodied red with a large image of a skull and cross bones, which Roger claimed was too cliché _not_ to put on display. Surrounding the board were posters for video games, mostly fighting and first person shooters. The bed was king sized and covered head to toe in white linens, which Roger jokingly claimed was straight out of an _Ikea_ catalog. Next to the bed was a small white table, on top of which stood a black digital clock with red flashing numbers and a pile of coins. Across from the bed was a large television, hooked up to which was an Xbox and a scattered array of various DVD's and video games. To say the least, the room was _huge_ , at least twice the size of Simon's own bedroom, and he wondered if Roger's father made a particularly large sum of money. He didn't ask, though. Roger hated talking about his family.

 

“What was the film you were telling me about?” Simon asked, interrupting their silence. Roger tore his gaze away from the window to turn his head toward Simon, dark brows creased and green eyes glinting with confusion. He stared at Simon, the expression on his face telling the smaller boy he was somewhat lost in thought. “The horror one.” Simon decided to clarify. “The one you bet would make me cry.” Realization passed over Roger's eyes as he nodded and stood from his seat on the window sill, digging through the pile of films. After a moment of rummaging, Roger held up a plain disk, completely unprotected with no label on the front. Simon cocked his head to the side, hopping down from his seat as well. “What is it?” He asked, taking a step closer to the other boy. Roger grinned.

 

“Might as well be torture porn.” He answered, making Simon's breath hitch. “It's some American Indie film that's basically all sex and slow, gruesome death. I tried to get Maurice to watch it and it made him sick.” Roger turned to his tele, sliding the disk into the DVD player. He gave Simon a sideways smirk, dropping his voice to something that was almost a whisper. “Personally, it's one of my favorites.” He straightened, wrapping his arms around Simon's waist and pulling the smaller boy close to his body, hips pressed to one and other and tips of noses barely brushing together. “Scared?” He asked, dark green eyes dancing with sick amusement.

 

“Not at all.” Simon stated, trying to sound just as confident and cocky as his other. The shake in his voice betrayed him, however, and he had to watched in embarrassment as Roger's smirk grew. The fact of the matter was, Simon _wasn't_ scared, not by the movie at least. He never had much of a problem with gore until he reached his twelfth year. Around that time, he started reacting to splatter films, but not in the way he should have been. He wasn't scared or grossed out or bothered by the blood or the slow, painful deaths, but rather fascinated beyond comprehension. It didn't take long before that fascination turned into full blown blood lust and he couldn't seem to get enough of the gruesome, bloody pictures. Without putting much thought into his actions, Simon began beating himself to the images. His brain took a long while to draw the connection between his love for body horror and his need for release whenever he turned one on. It wasn't like he couldn't get off to normal things, such images of attractive boys or the concept of someone else wrapping their hand around his dick, he just tended to prefer the gross out imagery. After stumbling upon that discovery, he found himself utterly mortified.

 

A part of him was petrified by the thought that he would get turned on by the film Roger was about to show him, not wanting to reveal this strange libido of his so soon in his first ever relationship. But somehow asking Roger to _not_ play the film would be worse. He would either have to awkwardly explain that gore didn't freak him out, but in fact turned him on, or have Roger think he was scared. Neither seemed like very glamorous options. So he let the movie play, letting out a silent prayer that his blood wouldn't rush to his groin this time.

 

At the first imagine, Simon could feel his heart rate pick up as he watched long, red painted finger nails drag themselves down a muscular back, breaking skin and making this scarlet liquid drip down a tanned complexion. A slight _click_ sound was heard from the other side of the room as Roger switched off the bedroom light to surrender them in darkness. Simon crossed his legs, squeezing his thighs together as he watched the camera pan out, revealing a naked couple atop white sheets splattered in blood. The man held a knife in his hand, slowly dragging the blade down the girl's pale thigh, leaving a red line of blood.

 

“ _Please,”_ The girl moaned and Simon squeezed his thighs tighter. They weren't even two minutes into the damn film and he was already feeling the pressure around his groin growing. He wasn't sure how much more he could take.

 

The scene quickly turned ballistic, as the knife dug into the girls stomach, dragging down to reveal inner organs. The screen became a mess of toren skin and blood. Chunks of muscle were ripped out of her thigh as the man continued to fuck her lifeless corpse, kissing the pale, blood stained skin. Simon chewed at his lower lip, glancing at Roger, whose eyes were glued to the screen. Simon looked down at the tent in his jeans, then back at the boy next to him. Cautiously, without taking his eyes off Roger, he pressed the heel of his palm to the front of his pants, relieving some of the pressure. He dug his teeth into his lip and continued to stare at the screen, working himself through his jeans. He got lost in himself, too focused on the screen and the feeling of his hand working his dick to notice Roger, who had lost interest in the movie and began watching the smaller boy with fascination.

 

“I didn't peg you for the type, babe.” He said, his lips suddenly against the shell of Simon's ear. The smaller boy jumped, the flush draining completely from his face. Roger grinned, a wicked sort of toothy smile that looked menacing in the dark light of the television. “Why'd you stop, love?” He asked, a sense of mockery in his tone. Simon stared at him for a moment, trying to work out whether or not Roger was joking. Slowly, with shaking hands, he place his hand back over his bulge, pressing the heel of his palm into dick and making himself moan. “God, those sounds you make are cute,” Roger said, nuzzling his nose into Simon's neck. He placed a kiss on the smaller boy's pulse, making goosebumps prick at his dark skin. “Make them again, won't you?” His voice was sickly sweet, almost disturbingly different from his usual gruff and disinterested tone.

 

Simon turned to look at him, but quickly had his jaw forced back toward the screen. “Don't.” Roger growled, the tone making Simon's breath hitch. “Touch yourself.” He said, his voice having softened considerably. Simon's brow furrowed.

 

“Aren't I already?” He asked, his voice quiet and shaky. Roger bit roughly at his neck, making the small boy mewl from the pain. He felt Roger thumb the button on his jeans, popping it open and relieving the pressure on his dick. They locked eyes, both breathing more heavily than before. Without taking his eyes off Roger's, Simon pushed down his jeans and underwear, wrapping his hand around his dick and pumping slowly, teasingly.

 

“Shit,” Roger murmured, voice low and breathy. “ _shit_ ,” He said again. “You're gonna be the death of me.” Simon couldn't help but giggle at the statement, his cheeks heating up in a mix of embarrassment and want.

 

“Do you want me to keep watching the movie, _sir_?” Simon asked, suddenly feeling more confident in his actions. Roger groaned, his thumb and forefinger gripping the other boy's jaw.

 

“You're killing me.” He said, loosening his grip to run his thumb over Simon's soft, full lips. “So fucking pretty,” He murmured, making Simon's movements halt as he felt his breath get caught in his throat. He placed a soft kiss to the smaller boy's lips, sweet and gentle and everything Roger is not. He pulled away, just enough so that their lips were barely touching as he guided Simon's free hand to his chest, palm pressing to the left of his pectoral. Simon could feel Roger's heart as it it rapidly pounded against his sternum, and the smaller boy inhaled sharply. “Do you feel that?” Roger asked, looking up at Simon through his eyelashes, even though he was the taller of the two. “Do you feel how fast my heart is beating?” The dark boy swallowed thickly and caught his lower lip between his teeth.

 

“Yes.” He said, voice barely above a whisper.

 

“You did this to me.” Roger said, voice lower than usual with a hint of a breathy tone. Guiding Simon's hand with an uncharacteristically gentle touch, he placed the small boy's hand on top of the ever prominent bulge in his jeans. He tilted his head slightly, letting his lips brush against the tanned skin of the other boy's jaw, just above his earlobe. “Feel me.” He said, the aggression in his tone starting to pick up the more he spoke. “Squeeze me and make me moan. Be my toy, my little plaything.” Simon couldn't help his shallow, uneven breaths are he tried his best not to hyperventilate. He glance down at the tent in Roger's pants, beads of sweat gathering at his palms. Never had he been spoken to in such a way, as if he were some sort of sexual object -some sort of _toy_ \- and he couldn't help the wave of excitement such dehumanizing words created.

 

“Roger,” He started, his voice fading with a mix of nerves and excitement. Whatever he was about to say was quickly interrupted by Roger's hot breath on his skin and his voice in his ear.

 

“Don't you want to play, Simon?” He knew his hands were shaking. The pure  _ludicrousy_  of it all only seemed to fuel his desire and some how the background noise of screams and bones crunching from the movie was completely forgotten in his mind. Simon was no longer thinking about the shame that burrowed itself deep in his stomach whenever he found himself watching gore, or the fact that he truly had _no idea_ what he was doing when it came to sexual sorts of things. The only thing running through his mind was _Roger, Roger, Roger._ So he fully cupped the other boy through the fabric of his jeans, squeezing lightly and filling himself with a sense of pride when he heard Roger's satisfied sigh. Sharp teeth dug into the skin of his neck, making Simon gasp at the unexpected sensation. As if he were trying to sooth the wound, Roger's tongue trailed across the bite mark, down to the dark boy's collarbone. He sucked bruises into the skin, giving harsh bites to whatever area he pleased and smirking at Simon's little yelps and gasps of surprise. The smaller boy continued to palm him, working through the fabric in his best attempt to get Roger to moan.

 

“God, you're so perfect.” He mumbled against his skin, making heat rise to Simon's cheeks. “The most perfect thing I've ever gotten to use -the prettiest toy I've ever played with.” Without much of a warning, or any indication of what was going on, Simon felt himself being pinned to the bed, arms above his head and Roger's weight on top of his own. “I want you so fucking bad, you have no idea.” Roger's words were practically a growl as his lips captured Simon's in a rough kiss. His tongue ran over the other's lips, forcing them to part as it explored the inside of the small boy's mouth. Simon moaned and began bucking his hips in an attempt to gain friction. Roger released his grip on the smaller boy's wrists in favor of pinning down his hips, thumbs pressing into the divots of his hipbones. Simon whined, the sound louder than he had intended.

 

“Shh,” Roger hushed, lips still brushing together. “Toys don't get what they want.” Simon groaned in complaint, earning a harsh bite at his windpipe. “Behave,” Roger spat, words bitten and harsh. “Then you'll be rewarded.” He returned his focus to Simon's neck, taking a moment to admire the clusters of purple bruises already forming on his dark skin. “Look at you,” Roger purred, smirk prominent. “All splayed out for me, covered in marks like a little whore.” He pushed his hips into Simon's, rutting against him harshly and giving the both of them much needed friction. “I bet you're _loving_ this.” Simon's arms wrapped around Roger's shoulders, scratching red, agitated lines down his back as his bucked his hips in an attempt to keep up with the taller boy's movements.

 

“Oh, fuck.” He muttered, earning an amused smirk from Roger.

 

“You like it when I move my hips like that?” He asked, making Simon chew at his lower lip and nod. Roger's lips brushed against the shell of Simon's ear, voice low and soft. “Imagine of I was inside.” He couldn't help but gasp and flush at the concept, wondering how it would feel, Roger's cock thrusting inside his _fucking arse_ , making him scream and cry out. Not that Simon was a complete stranger to being stuffed full, having attempted to stretch himself with his own fingers on numerous occasions. Most of the occasions were mostly out of curiosity of the sensation, considering he was used to one end of the spectrum, but had begun to wonder about the other. Whenever he was watching videos, he was always more drawn to the one on bottom, seeing how much pleasure the, generally rather small, boy was getting from being filled and found his mind wandering to how he himself would react to the situation. In truth, it was a bizarre process the first time, as if his fingers didn't belong there and his insides were rejecting them. As time went on, he found more enjoyment with the motions and found that he almost  _preferred_  it to beating himself. However, his two fingers were much smaller than Roger's cock and the size difference made Simon a bit nervous.

 

“Be gentle.” Simon whimpered, making Roger grin and chuckle, as if what the boy had said was the most amusing thing in the world. He cupped Simon's cheek, pressing a sweet kiss to his lips.

 

“Love,” He said, voice soft and kind. “I can promise I won't be.” He trailed his thumb down to Simon's throat, wrapping his hand around it and squeezing. The smaller boy gasped and moaned, finding a sort of euphoria in the lack of oxygen. The tighter Roger's fingers got, the more he cried out, moans broken from the inability to take in air. He could hear the other's voice in his ear, words of encouragement that he could barely pay attention to in favor of focusing on the sweet high he was experiencing. The choking lessened little by little, until the only contact Roger had with his neck was the gentle glide of fingertips over smooth skin. “On your stomach, arse in the air.” He ordered, voice an animalistic growl. Simon complied, too caught up in his euphoria to argue. Roger's fingers hooked to the inside of his bottoms, pulling both jeans and underwear down roughly, fingers palming the newly exposed skin.

 

He spread Simon slightly, thumb circling around the tight ring of muscles and nerves surrounding his entrance, applying enough pressure to make the smaller boy whimper and shake with pleasure. Without much warning, Roger thrust a dry finger into his entrance, making Simon cry out from the burning sensation traveling through his body. He felt the finger curl inside him, prodding at his insides as his body quivered. A second finger was added not long after, this time coated in a generous amount of lubricant and slipping in without much struggle. The scissoring motion Roger made had Simon gasping and pushing his hips back in an attempt to take in more. Long fingers brushed by his prostate, causing the dark boy to cry out in ecstasy. He could feel himself being stretched open, any wave of tension that had been in his body completely dispersing as he allowed Roger to play his body like an instrument, piano fingers and all. The other boy's teeth dug into the small of Simon's back, sucking at the skin as the dark boy struggled to keep his knees from collapsing.

 

Roger retreated his fingers, leaving Simon feeling empty and unsatisfied. His cock throbbed, begging get any sort of release. He began to grow agitated, wondering what could possibly be taking so long.

 

“ _Hurry._ ” He begged, making Roger halt his actions entirely. He brought his lips to Simon's ear, voice low and growling.

 

“What would you do if I didn't fuck you tonight? If I didn't fill you up properly and left you aching for more?” The small boy's words caught in his throat, rendering him speechless with anticipation.

 

“ _Please_.” He begged, knowing full well that begging wouldn't make his situation any more favorable. Roger's teeth sunk into his neck, making Simon cry out at the sharp sensation.

 

“I want to be all you think about,” Roger continued, rutting himself against Simon's backside. The smaller boy moaned, teeth digging into his lip. “Fuck, you're all I can think about. I want you withering underneath me, begging for me to go harder.” Simon couldn't do much more than groan as the images passed through his mind.

 

“ _Please_ ” He repeated, voice hoarse and broken at how much he ached for a simple touch. He wanted to feel Roger's finger press bruises into his hipbones as he thrust in and out of Simon's arse, making the small boy cry with pure, unadulterated pleasure.

 

“Do you want me as much as I want you?” Roger asked, the tip of his cock prodding at Simon's entrance, almost pushing inside. The teasing had the dark boy holding his breath, praying for something more. He wanted release, with Roger inside him- breaking through his virginity. In that moment, Simon couldn't think of anything he wanted more.

 

“Yes,” He moaned, voice barely above a whisper. “Yes, please fuck me and use me and let me be your toy, please.” He was barely able to finish his sentence before Roger was full sheathed inside him, hips moving so quickly it nearly threw Simon off balance. He grasped for the sheets underneath him, nails digging into the white linens as Roger's cock stretched him. His knees quivered, threatening to give out underneath him as he sobbed at the mix of pain and utter ecstasy engulfing his body. Roger's dick brushed by a certain area, making Simon gasp so loudly it might as well have been a scream. The sound of skin slapping against skin resonated throughout the room as the smell of testosterone filled the air. Simon tried to move his hips back, but the attempt was futile as he could barely remember his own name. With a loud cry that sounded like something similar to Roger's name, Simon's body trembled as he spilled out on to Roger's poor, white bed sheets. The small boy's body immediately became hyper sensitive and every quick thrust and snap of the hips had his breath shaking.

 

Not long after, Roger overcame his own release, letting his fluids spill into Simon's body. They collapsed, Roger on top of Simon as his head buried into the crook of the small boy's neck. His breath was warm and tickled the Simon's skin and his lips pressed soft kisses to the tops of the dark boy's shoulders. Body still shaking, Simon turned his head slightly to watch the forgotten screen. He wasn't entirely sure of the events that were taking place, but her could make out the same man from the opening scene dragging the sharp ends of razor blades across his thighs and moaning at the sensations. Roger lifted himself from Simon's boy, pulling out entirely and sitting up, his back leaning against the bed's headboard. He pulled his jeans back up, tucking himself into his trousers and giving himself a moment to fix his disheveled appearance. Simon took the opportunity to do the same, suddenly hyper aware of how sore his entire body had become and how much he longed for sleep. He watched as Roger lit a cigarette -a bloody _cigarette_ , in his _bedroom_ \- and took a sort of comfort in the scent of tobacco and nicotine.

 

“I always smoke after sex.” Roger explained. Simon nodded, not bothering to point out that Roger always smokes after any activity. “It calms me. Cigarettes calm me.”

 

“Aren't you worried about lung cancer?” Simon asked. He had tried a few puffs of Roger's cigarettes before, but never found the appeal in the taste of tobacco and didn't like the concept of damaging his lungs. Roger shrugged.

 

“Not really.” He paused to let a cloud of gray smoke out into the room, giving the dark air a hazy sort of glow. “We all have our ways of hurting ourselves.” Simon subconsciously ran his finger tips over the healing scabs covering his forearms, wondering how long it would take for Roger to notice them.

 

“Are you depressed?” He asked. Roger scoffed and put the half finished cigarette back up to his lips. He shook his head, but Simon couldn't tell if it was to say no to his question or out of amusement.

 

“I'm just pissed the fuck off.”

 


	7. Drug Filled Veins

Sometime between dusk and the purest quintessence of night, when only a few rays of orange sunlight peaked over the horizon, Jack had found himself seated in his back yard, bare feet dipped just under the surface of his pool's water and the sleeves of his flannel rolled up past his elbows. His parents had long since left, leaving him up to his own demise for the weekend as they went into London for three days of drinking and sex. Not that his parents would ever share something of the sort with him _directly_ , but Jack wasn't an idiot. His parents were not discrete, nor particularly intelligent people, and they often left to do as they pleased without the weight of their son's burden hanging over their shoulders. In some ways, it was nice. It gave Jack time to indulge himself in a bit of self destruction, the sorts of bad habits that fucked with his mind and left him floating on cloud nine. Being alone also gave him chances to have Roger and Maurice over, to indulge in such habits along his side. If Maurice couldn't make it due to his strict home life and unbearably neurotic mother, Jack could press his advantage on Roger, who was a ready and willing toy. Therefore, his parents' general neglect and exclusive regard for their own well being was usually in Jack's favor.

 

He pressed his middle and index fingers to the pit of his elbow, searching for a prominent pulse. Long, white fingers clenched and unclenched repeatedly as his muscles tensed in an attempt to fine the vein in his left arm. Balanced between his teeth was a syringed filled to the brim with a rosy gray liquid. A long strip of blue latex, the kind people generally used for exercise, was placed next to him in the grass, ready to be used if necessary. Tightly, Jack tied the latex around his bicep, watching as the blood circulation was cut off from that section of his arm and rushed to the bulging veins in the crook of his elbow. He extracted the syringe from between his teeth and pressed the long, thin needle into his arm, watching as the gray liquid deposited into his bloodstream. Slowly, he leaned his head back, feeling the effects of the high wash over his mind. He let his eyelids flutter closed and used the palms of his hands to support himself. He let his imagination wander back to his parents, wondering if they were having as good of a time as he was in that moment.

 

“ _Be a good boy, Jack.” His mother said, her tone as disinterested as ever. In reality, Jack knew she couldn't give less of a shit whether or not he would be good, she only said things like that because that's what she thought mothers were supposed to do._

 

_Jack merely grunted in return, not bothering to look up at either of his parents from his spot in front of the television. He was rather comfortable on the couch and couldn't be bothered to move. The show was something mundane and boring, but it gave him an excuse not to turn his attention toward his parents._

 

“ _No parties.” His father said. He always managed to sound a bit more interested in Jack's life, but that honestly wasn't saying much._

 

“ _Ah, yes,” Jack started, his voice laced in sarcasm as he still refused to break his gaze from the tele. “Those wild parties I'll have with all my two friends. How exciting.” Although he wasn't looking, Jack was almost certain his father was sneering._

 

“ _You're such a smart ass, kid.” His father replied, grumbling more to himself than anyone else. Jack shrugged and didn't bother to reply._

 

“ _Jack, I'm serious,” His mother said, her voice hinting at a bit more sternness than usual. “I don't want you getting into any trouble while we're away.” For a brief moment, Jack managed to tear his eyes away from the screen a few feet in front of him to give his mother a quick nod of the head._

 

Can't get in trouble, _Jack thought._ If I don't get caught.

 

He wasn't sure how much time had passed since he'd stepped foot outside, but the sun had completely disappeared, leaving him submerged in darkness. Clouds covered the sky as per usual, giving off a gray haze to the atmosphere. He ran a hand through his fiery red curls, allowing his nails to scrape down his scalp and his palm travel slowly down his neck. He let his fingers curls slightly when they reached his clavicle, rubbing soft circles into the skin. His body tingled with warmth and his head clouded with false sensations of happiness. A phantom itch ran over his skin as Jack squeezed his eyes shut tighter and allowed his fingernails to graze over the flesh on his arms. He let his mind wander to the golden boy, focusing on the features of his face. His skin was too golden, too tanned for a British boy and it made Jack wonder how someone could get so much sun in such a cloudy, gray area. Every one of his facial features were soft and curved, with a straight, slightly upturned nose and high cheekbones that managed to carve out a strong jawline. His lips were full and pink and always managed to look so soft. His eyes were wide and dark blue, always so bright and full of wonder that they almost hinted at childishness, and were surrounded by thick, blonde lashes. His golden waves were always styled to be pushed up and out of his face, as if they'd been ruffled by a warm beach wind. He was perfection, Jack thought, the most flawless human to have ever existed and the ginger boy couldn't help but let his mind wander back to the feeling of kissing those perfect lips.

 

He was sweet, Jack recalled, sweeter than any girl he'd ever fooled around with, even with the lingering taste of coffee and cigarettes in his breath. His lips tasted of sunshine, warm and pleasant with the slight flavor of cherry chapstick -which Jack made sure to make a mental note of- and although his body had been slick with salty sweat, the red headed boy could still smell the fresh grass and morning dew coating his skin. Jack didn't even have to wonder what the fair boy would look like, panting and covered in sweat because he'd already been exposed to the sight and it was better than anything he could've imagined. But it wasn't enough. He wanted Ralph pinned underneath him, to feel every shift of the fair boy's muscles, to have his body -his gorgeous, perfect boy- to twist and quake in pure _agony_ as his pretty voice begged for more, more, _more_.

 

Jack chewed at his bottom lip, running his thumb over the screen of his phone, the temptation over whelming him. His breath began to slow as his vision blurred and he wondered how long it would be before he sunk into full euphoria. He couldn't, no matter how much shit he injected into his veins. There was no way he could experience complete satisfaction without knowing what the fair boy felt like on the inside, without being able to hear ever gasp and shake of his breath. Before he knew what he was doing, his phone was up to his ear, every ring making his breathing hitch just a little bit more.

 

“Jack,” It was Ralph's voice that answered, not sounding upset or confused or really holding any emotion to it at all.

 

“I want you to come over.” Jack said, the arrogance in his tone strong. Ralph paused, thinking, consideration evident in his hesitation.

 

“Why?” He asked, voice slow with caution. Jack grinned, allowing himself to lay down fully in the grass. He placed his hand behind his head, fingers curling into ginger strands.

 

“I want to see you.” He said. Silence. He knew Ralph was thinking, suddenly hyper aware of every slight shift and breath that could be heard from the other end. He pictured the golden boy laying in his bed, clad in nothing but a pair of boxers with his fair waves surrounding his head like a halo. Maybe Jack caught him at the worst of times, when his hand was around his dick and his face was flushed red.

 

“What are you wearing?' Jack blurted, his curiosity suddenly over coming him. He heard the hitch in Ralph's breath, could picture the flush in his smooth cheeks.

 

“Merridew,” He started, words washed out by the heave in his breath.

 

“I haven't got anything better to do, golden boy.” Jack said, the arrogance in his voice fading, only to be replaced by a sense of boredom. “Entertain me.” He could hear Ralph swallow from the other end of the line, clearly nervous.

 

“Pajamas.” He said and Jack could picture him squirming in his seat with discomfort. Jack hummed, disappointed with this answer.

 

“Be more specific.” He attempted to sound cajoling, but his words came out as more of an order than a suggestion.

 

“Well, um,” Ralph started, voice hesitant and stammering. “I don't really wear a lot to bed in the first place, and it's getting to be rather warm, so um,” He paused and took a shaky breath, pausing as he tried to force himself to get the words out. Jack grinned, already predicting what the fair boy was about to admit. “Nothing.” He finished, making the grin stretched across Jack's face split. He could picture it, his mind wandering to the most explicit details, to imagine every inch of golden tanned skin on the fair boy's body. He wanted the real thing to wither underneath him, to whisper obscene things in the fair boy's ear and watch as the perfect skin blotched with a red flush. He let out a breath, something that shook more than he intended.

 

“Come over. I want you with me.” He ordered, waiting patiently for Ralph to respond.

 

“Jack, I don't-” He paused, the thick air of concentration leaving Jack on edge. “I can't, my father's home. I really ought to be in bed.”

 

“Sucks to your father!”

 

“Jack!”

 

“When was the last time you had any fun, pretty boy?” He asked, waiting in smug silence for Ralph to respond. “The last time you broke a rule, disobeyed your father?” Again, silence. Jack lowered his voice, something deep and hardly above a whisper. “The last time you fooled around?”

 

“You're out of your damn mind.” Ralph said, a hint of a scoff in his tone. “I'm not like the likes of you, Merridew. I don't just do _that_ sort of thing at every whim.” Jack grinned, his mind too far gone to even consider his next words.

 

“Are you a virgin, blondie?” He asked, letting out little chuckles he couldn't contain. Ralph stayed quiet, confirming what Jack already knew. “Shit,” He muttered, running his fingers through red curls. “Shit, you're even more perfect than I could've imagined.”

 

“What are you talking about?” Ralph asked, the waver in his voice giving away his embarrassment. Jack scoffed, letting all his wildest fantasies spin in his mind.

 

“You're fucking _valuable_ , golden boy. You have something to give, the sort of thing you can only give away once, and I want it, I want you so fucking bad. God, I bet you're so tight and sensitive. Fuck, just when I thought I couldn't want you more.”

 

“It's not that big of a deal.” He mumbled.

 

“Come over.” Jack repeated, more firm, more direct than any other time. Ralph took a shaky breath, hesitation evident in his voice.

 

“Okay.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Jack wasn't sure how long he'd been waiting before he heard three sharp knocks at his front door. Slowly, he pushed himself up from his place in the grass and strolled over to the front door. The clouds had parted a bit, letting three moon beams light up the dreary night. His high had begun to settle, leaving his brain content and his heart rate slow. He was a bit surprised to see that Ralph had bothered to pull on regular street clothes, although he wasn't sure where the surprise came from considering he hadn't expected the boy to show up stark naked. The night was warm and wet with a gentle breeze floating through the air that ruffled the fair strands a top Ralph's head. The night seemed to be a bit warm for trousers, Jack thought, wondering why the fair boy hadn't opted for shorts when it seemed like the perfect opportunity. Without putting much thought into his actions, Jack looped his arm around the fair boy's waist, pulling him into the other's body and planting a kiss to his lips. Ralph sputtered and pulled away, eyes wide in shock that only made Jack's grin grow. He cupped his cheek, golden skin soft under calloused fingertips.

 

“You're so pretty.” He said. Ralph flinched away from his touch, shaking his head slightly as he pushed past Merridew's body and into the house.

 

“Shut up, Merridew.” He said, voice biting and venomous. Jack grinned lazily and let the front door drift shut. Ralph began to wander, heading in the direction of the backyard, but pausing to take in his surrounding environment every so often. His eyes landed on the empty syringe, now laying on the granite counter tops of Jack's kitchen. He glanced back at the ginger, eyebrows raised in mock surprise. “Are you high, Jack?” He asked, making a lazy grin stretch across Merridew's face. He didn't need to respond, it was a question the fair boy already had an answer to. Ralph continued to stare at him, as if he expected some sort of reply, but Jack refrained from speaking, making the other roll his eyes and continue toward the outside.

 

“You have a pool.” He commented once the night air hit their skin. Jack nodded, watching closely at the awestruck wonder on Ralph's face. He found himself caught off guard as the fair boy peeled off his shirt, revealing tanned skin stretched over a hardened torso.

 

“What are you-”

 

“ 'm going for a swim.” Ralph replied, popping open the button on his jeans and shimming them down his legs, leaving himself clad in black, Calvin Klein underwear. He ran to the side of the pool, diving into the water and creating a slight splash. Jack stood still, dumbstruck and awkward. When the fair boy emerged, body covered in glistening water that shone under the moon beams, Jack couldn't help but stare. He crouched at the edge of the pool, watching as the fair boy swam over to him and rested his elbows on the pavement. Jack leaned down to press his lips to the others, soft and sweet. He revealed in Ralph's flavor, the sunshine of his lips and the sweet grass of his scent. He wanted to taste more.

 

This time, the fair boy didn't sputter and pull away, but rather melted into the kiss, soft, full lips opening slightly to take in more of Jack, to let himself get lost in the affection. The cherry that lingered on his lips from the last time Merridew had properly snogged him was gone, but instead replaced with vanilla and spearmint, a combination the ginger didn't think he would've enjoyed up until that moment. He felt the fair boy's tongue try to lick into his mouth, making Jack smirk and push back with more vigor. His fingers reached up to clutch at Ralph's jaw, forcing it open slightly as he thrust his tongue in to the warm crevice of the other's mouth. The golden boy let out a muffled squeak of surprise and attempted to fight back, letting his own tongue run over Merridew's and try to thrust it's way into the ginger's mouth. It was an amusing effort, really, and Jack couldn't help but let his smirk grow. He pulled away, smirk evident on his face and icy eyes piercing the fair boy's golden body. He undid the buttons on his flannel, letting the garment fall to the ground and watching with satisfaction as the fair boy's eyes widened.

 

“See something you like, beautiful?” He asked, arrogance heavy in his tone. Ralph brought his thumb up to his teeth, biting slightly at the nail.

 

“Don't get cocky, Merridew,” he said, the shake in his voice drowning out any bite his words may have held. Jack planted another quick kiss to his lips, eyes gleaming with confidence.

 

“You're so fucking perfect.” He muttered, making Ralph's breath hitch. He watching in awe as the ginger dove into the pool, making droplets of water splash around them and rain over Ralph's form. When Jack came back up, grinning like a maniac, Ralph couldn't help but glare at him.

 

“You splashed me, you fucking-” His words were cut off by Merridew's arms looping around his waist, pulling him into the ginger's body as warm, thin lips covered his own. Ralph tangled his fingers in the other's hair, the red curls soft under his touch as he tugged slightly. Jack groaned, tongue swiping across his bottom lip to take in the fair boy's flavor. He opened his mouth willingly, not bothering to fight with the ginger this time as he let him take full control. The fair boy found himself flushed and panting before long, whining with discontent every time Jack pulled away to take a breath. Long fingers ran down his body, soft to the touch, making chills prickle his tanned skin. Merridew grinned, icy blue eyes centering in on every short, shallow breath, every widen of dark blue eyes, every reaction his prey managed to showcase. He revealed in it, pride swelling his chest, proud that he was the one to get the golden boy like this, he was the one to have an effect on a such a perfect creation.

 

He pressed his hips into Ralph's, pinning the boy to the edge of the pool as he moved his pelvis in slow, agonizing circles. He peppered sloppy, open mouthed kisses to the fair boy's neck, letting his tongue catch every drop of water than ran down his skin. Ralph gasped when the ginger sunk his teeth into golden flesh, sucking slightly and getting lost in the noises the other boy was making. Jack pressed his palm press to Ralph's front, applying just a bit of pressure

 

Within an instant, the fair boy's eyes shot open, his hands pressed flat against Merridew's chest, shoving him away. Jack stumbled back slightly, giving a few inches distance between himself and Ralph. The blond's eyes were wide with what looked to be panic as he sunk into himself, arms wrapping around his torso.

 

“Don't,” He started to say, his voice catching in his throat. He swallowed dryly, lower lip caught between his teeth as his eyes searched for anywhere to rest that wasn't Jack's face. “do that again.” he continued after a moment. Jack continued to stare, gaze unreadable. After a moment, he let out a heavy sigh, running a chlorine covered hand through ginger curls, tugging slightly at the ringlets.

 

“I don't understand you.” He mumbled, making those dark blue eyes peak up at him, curious. “You care so much about this damned reputation you've built for yourself-”

 

“It's not about that, you bloody swine.” Ralph snapped, chest puffed in anger and soft features hardening. Jack raised a fiery brow. “I just,” the fair boy paused, voice having softened significantly and blue eyes lowering once again. “I don't really like physical contact.” Jack scoffed, a cruel, humorless smirk resting on his face.

 

“Of course you don't,” He mocked, watching as Ralph's facial expression struggled to rest somewhere between angered and confused. “Which is why you liked it so much when I was snogging you.” a pink blush spread across his cheeks, shameful and bright.

 

“Jack, I can't.” He said, the pleading expression on his face only making Merridew's annoyance grow. He ran a hand down his face, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “Don't be mad, please.” The fair boy blurted, genuine worry in his voice that Jack would've found amusing under different circumstances. He ran his tongue over his lips, trying to choose his next words carefully.

 

“Why did you even come over?” He words came out a bit harsher than intended, leaving Ralph's face flushed bright red. Dark blue eyes fell to the water's surface, fingers tapping against it to create little ripples.

 

“I don't know,” He said, voice quiet, almost a whisper. He turned away, back facing the ginger as he began to climb out of the pool. “I should go, then, and leave you alone.” Without much thought, Jack grabbed his ankle, grip uncharacteristically loose, touch surprisingly soft. Even though he could have easily wiggled free, could have easily left, the fair boy's body stilled. He didn't bother to face Jack, but instead opted to freeze completely. Hesitantly, Jack retracted his touch, sharp expression having softened just a bit, enough to cause the muscles in Ralph's shoulders relax. He still didn't attempt to escape, but only shifted enough to fully release himself from the water. Jack moved to follow, hesitating once he reached the edge and found himself staring down the fair boy's _arse._ He flushed, orange freckles burning red and quickly backed away, giving Ralph room to dress himself.

 

He didn't understand why he was acting this way, so shy and awkward, unable to voice his thoughts or pull himself together. He was the type of bloke to be this way, to back away from anything or fall apart because of someone else. And yet, whenever he came face to face with the gorgeous, golden lad he couldn't control his blush. He was supposed to radiate confidence, to be the type his peers either looked up to or feared, not this blushing, quaking mess that golden tanned skin and deep blue eyes turned him into.

 

“Jack,” Ralph's voice snapped him back to reality, and Merridew watched as the golden boy fiddled with the button on his pants, pink tongue poking out over full lips just slightly, just enough to make Jack's mind run wild. “I really am sorry if you- I mean, that I-” Jack shook his head, finally gathering up the courage to hop out of the water, cupping Ralph's cheeks in the palms of his hands.

 

“Hey, Golden boy,” He started, snapping Ralph's attention directly to him, those pretty blue eyes wide and curious. Softly, just ever so softly, Jack planted his lips -thin, and chapped- to the fair boy's, soft full ones. He allowed the tips of his fingers to play with the thin wisps of hair on the back of Ralph's neck, the fair boy's palms flat against his chest. Slowly, Jack pulled away, letting his hands slid down those soft, round cheeks slowly, kindly. He smirked. “Shut up.”

 

Ralph stared at him, eyes blown and lips parted. He brought his thumb up to his mouth, running the pad of his digit over his bottom lip almost absentmindedly. “Okay,” He said, almost a whisper. “I guess I'll, um,” Jack's grin grew, revealing in the fact that he made Ralph just as flush as the golden boy made him.

 

“I'll see you.” Jack finished. The fair boy's lips quirked up, just a bit, just enough for Jack to consider it a smile.

 

“Yeah, I'll see you.”

 


	8. Have You Ever Been in Love?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will probably be mistakes because i didn't have a lot of time to proof read. Also, I caved and got a tumblr  
> http://merribitch-at-castlerock.tumblr.com/

Roger could feel every nerve in his body ignite in flames, fueling the anger that helped pump his blood and the pure, unadulterated rage that nestled itself in the pit of his soul. He had snapped, pissed to the point where not even the comfort of nicotine or the satisfaction of cocaine could calm his senses. He slammed his bedroom door, the sound resonating against the walls, only barely letting itself be heard over the blood rushing in Roger's ears. He slammed his fist against the plaster, a hollow _thud_ sounding from underneath his knuckles. He needed a cigarette, a good fuck, the feeling of flames flicking against his skin -anything to calm this unbearable anger.

 

His fingers itched to hurt, to take a bat to his father's head- to throw his fist in Merridew's face, to sink his teeth into Simon's neck. He could feel fire on his skin, a heat that made each nerve in his body quake with agony, with a desire to destroy. He needed something to make him feel on top of the world, the sort of ego boost that allowed every endorphin in his brain to swarm and make him forget everything but the feeling of cloud nine. He needed Simon, warm and flushed and panting underneath him. He needed to mark the dark boy's flesh with bruises, to make him scream and beg and leave his body sore and sensitive.

 

The distinct sound of footsteps echoed in the hallway, big steps that supported a heavy body. His father's booming voice sounded off, every word seeping through the cracks of the door frame.

 

“Open up, kid!” He shouted, banging his fist against the wooden door. Roger stood still, frozen in his place. He couldn't take more of this, couldn't face his father in another one of his rotten moods. The pounding became louder, making Roger cover his ears, eyes squeezing shut. He considered curling up into a ball of defeat and taking every hit his father gave him. That would be a hell of a lot easier than fighting back. He heard every crack in the wood as his door flew open, revealing his father filling out every inch of space in the frame. He winced when his eyes traveled to the leather belt in his father's hands, preparing himself for what was to come.

 

“What do you think I am, Roger?” That booming voice dug itself deep in his eardrum, making his muscles jump. “Some sort of slave service? Do ya think I've worked my ass off for sixteen years, fed you, payed for all this _shit_ just to watch you become an ungrateful little shithead?” Roger shook his head, jaw quaking in an unbearable mix between fear and rage.

 

“No, sir.” He said, voice barely above a whisper. He felt the smack of leather sting his cheek, throwing his body off balance as he stumbled into the wall, hand cupping his cheek. He braced himself against the plaster, hissing at the pain that traveled through his face. He used to cry when this happened, used to bawl and plead and hope that if he looked pathetic enough the pain would end. He'd learned to just take it, to suck it up and deal with every blow of that damned leather belt or his father's fist. Tears pricked his eyes, hot and stinging as his throat began to close.

 

“Stop crying, you fucking pussy.” His father shouted, landing another blow, this time to Roger's back, pallid skin stinging bright red. He collapsed, falling to his hands and knees and biting his lip to keep from crying out. A surge of pain ran up his spine, making his fingers clutch at the carpet underneath them. He was struck again, this time on bare skin from where his shirt had ridden up. A heavy foot pressed on his back, making his arms give out underneath him as he fell to his stomach. He coughed, sputtered just a bit and hoped to _God_ he wasn't bleeding. He tried to convince himself he was numb to the pain. He'd had cigarettes put out on his skin, taken cock up the ass, this wasn't anything. His father's foot slammed into his ribs, making him gasp in pain and curl up, just enough to protect his essential organs.

 

“You gonna apologize for taking my goddamn cigarettes?” His father asked, his toes jamming themselves under Roger's rib cage, shifting his weight onto him, making Roger' cough and wheeze as he tried to get air.

 

“ 'm sorry,” He choked out, breath catching in his throat as hot tears rolled down his face. He couldn't breath. Multicolored splotches of light dotted his vision and for a brief moment, Roger wondered if he was going to pass out. It wouldn't have been the first time he fainted from one of his father's beatings. But he didn't. He stayed fully conscious, acutely aware of ever slash of the leather belt, of every kick to the head, of every time he had to stop himself from crying out. His body stung, beaten and abused for a crime he didn't commit. But he couldn't explain that he bought his own cigarettes, that he was no longer thirteen and stupid enough to steal from his father because that would only make things worse.

 

He continued to lay still after it was over, praying to a nonexistent God that his father wouldn't come back. Roger's body quaked with anger, every twitch of his nerves sending a scorching blister of fire through his tendons, red hot and painful. He managed to push himself to a sitting position, the stinging in his back almost bad enough to make him vomit. Tears still rolled down his cheeks, which Roger attempted to aggressively wipe away. He reached for his phone, laying just a few feet away unharmed, and dialed Merridew's number.

 

“Roger?” He answered on the second ring. “What do you want?” It occurred to Roger that he hadn't spoken to the chief since their fight during the very beginning of summer and he began to wonder if this had been a bad idea.

 

“Let's get fucked up tonight.” He said, cringing at the catch in his voice. Merridew snickered, they type of laugh that Roger could hear the smirk in.

 

“Fuck yes.”

 

* * *

 

Roger wasn't sure how much time had passed since he's arrived at Merridew's, nor was he entirely certain just _how_ many drugs were pulsing through his blood stream. What he was aware of, however, was that everything felt numb. The pain in his body had disappeared completely, leaving his mind on cloud nine and everything surrounding him of its own world. He was laying on Merridew's black leather couch -an old, beat up piece of furniture that resided in his sitting room, away from the human eye- staring up at the popcorn textured ceiling and barely tuning into the sounds of the television in the background. Outside, the air held a dusk like sort of haze, making Roger believe it was early evening. He felt as though everything surrounding him was floating, shifting with every one of his own movements as the world spun around him. Merridew was seated perpendicular to him on a large reclining chair, legs splayed out in front of him to rest on the coffee table. His head lolled to the side slightly, pupils blown and red curls matted. Roger doubted he looked much better.

 

“Do you have any idea what we're watching?” Merridew asked, eyes slowly traveling to rest on the boy close to him. Roger pushed himself to a sitting position to meet eyes with the chief. He shook his head, smirking ever so slightly.

 

“I'm too twacked out to remember my fucking name.” Merridew grinned, bloodshot eyes rolling back to the screen, fingernails scarping at the skin on his arm.

 

“Feels like fucking cockroaches are crawling under my skin.” He complained, his tone disgruntled. Roger nodded, no stranger heroin's phantom itch that spread through out his body when ever he was high.

 

“How are you and blondie?” He asked, his drugged out brain suddenly taking curiosity to Merridew's love life. It tended to go that way, after all. They were prone to their most personal conversations when they were too fucked up to remember any of it the next day. Roger liked it best that way, not ever truly having a conversation with his friend, because in their sobriety they tended to avoid words all together. The chief shrugged on shoulder, mouth pressing together in a thin line.

 

“We're going slow. He's a virgin, and a prudish one at that -I've barely gotten to snog him.” He sighed, letting his fingertips run over the back of his neck. “He's so fucking pretty that I don't even care. I'll take whatever I can get.” Roger didn't react, his brain struggling to process Merridew's words. There was no way he would remember this come morning. “What about you and the batty kid?” Jack's words pulled his mind back to Simon, making Roger grin just a bit.

 

“Playing with him is fun.” Roger said, grin growing wider. “Doesn't talk much and lets me do whatever I want to him; the ideal toy.” Merridew scoffed, his facial expression a mix between impressed and judgmental.

 

“So you don't care about him at all?” He raised his fiery brows, not asking the question to chastise, but almost out of jealousy. Roger stared at the ceiling, expression hardening. He wasn't sure, and frankly that was scaring him. He rarely cared about anything and when he did bother to find some sort of compassion in his frozen abyss of a heart, it was never for another person. He liked to use, not to establish relationships, and found himself regularly tossing others aside when he grew bored. The only reason he friendships with Maurice and the chief managed to last so long was because he respected them, but he did not care for them.

 

In the case of Merridew, he admired his leadership abilities and cunning nature, which came to play whenever his ego was on the line. Merridew was ambitious and intelligent and frankly he was good at getting what he wanted. Never once could Roger remember seeing his friend fail. Along with that, they had too much in common to avoid each other. They were both infuriated with the universe and neither of them had any compassion for others. Their home lives were unhappy, although in different ways, but they had the same solution to the situations, which was to turn to mind numbers and nicotine to wash out the pain. And as much as Roger hated to admit it, he cared about how Merridew perceived him solely because of his great amount of respect for the ginger.

 

His feelings toward Maurice, however, was vastly different. Unlike Merridew, Roger found that he did enjoy Maurice's company in a sense. His goofy, predictable nature was calming in the worst of times and his loud, never ending voice was a pleasant contrast to Roger's quietness. Maurice was not a complicated person, but rather straight forward and open with everyone. He held himself to no higher standard than how he was perceived and he never let things effect him, which Roger admired to a certain extent, but that quality also fascinated him. Maurice was a generally good natured and fun-loving person who couldn't have been more different from Roger or the chief, and yet he seemed to have a way of completing their group despite his differences, and Roger could respect that.

 

But regardless of how much he could tolerate his friends, he didn't like or care for them, and he had come to the conclusion that that would be the highest praise he would ever have for another person. And yet, he found himself pondering his feelings toward Simon. He had never cared about anyone before the dark haired boy, not had he ever even really been _attracted_ to anyone other than the dark haired boy. His relationship with Simon was different from anything he'd ever experienced, and that almost scared him, in a sense. It seemed as though the only person he ever truly wanted to interact with when he was sober was, in fact, Simon, and for a brief moment he asked himself how he would react if the dark boy died. The thought didn't leave an emptiness in him like it normally did, but rather caused his stomach to churn.

 

“I care a little, just enough to stay with him and see where things go.” Roger replied finally, not bothering to move his eyes back to Merridew. That seemed like the most reasonable conclusion, but something still felt off. Did he truly care? He wasn't sure -how could he be having never felt anything for another person before? He felt his head spin, the thoughts becoming too much for his mind to bear and he squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't know.

 

* * *

 

He found himself at Simon's not long after his high started to wear off. He was just coming down, his eyes bloodshot and tired and his body starting to detox. He was on Simon's bed, the small boy laying on top of him, straddling his waist as their hips pushed together. His grip on the small boy's hips tightened, fingers digging into hipbones hard enough to leave purple bruised. Their lips pressed together in something slow and hungry, the kind of thing people light candles and sprinkle rose petals for. Roger was acutely aware of everything, every hitch in breathing or shift in weight or little gasp of his own name. He grinned, pushing his hips up and pressing Simon's body close to his own. The movement was so sudden, the boy above his gasp a breathy sort of moan that Roger couldn't get enough of. His hands traveled lower, squeezing Simon's arse and making the small boy sigh.

 

“I'm so in love with you.” He mumbled against Roger's lips, fingers tangling into dark hair. Roger froze, panic seeping into his mind. The words kept replaying, causing every muscle in his body to tense. He wasn't kissing back anymore, he wasn't even touching the boy above him, unable to move or even respond. The small boy pulled away in an instant, green eyes blown with fear as his hand slapped over his mouth. He scrambled off Roger's lap, every joint in his body frozen with tension. Roger pushed himself up, lips pressed together in fear of saying something to make the situation worse. His brain wouldn't shut up, and yet he couldn't respond. He made a move to reach for Simon's hand, which the small boy jerked away, looking like a deer in the headlights. Roger sighed, eyes squeezing shut in concentration. His hands quaked, throat closing up with anxiety as he tried to think of the right thing to say.

 

“What does that feel like?” He asked finally. Simon paused, eyes searching his face for an answer, but Roger couldn't offer one. He bit his lip, looking away for a moment and letting his gaze travel around the room.

 

“Like I'm floating.” He said finally, voice catching as though he were about to cry. “Because it's kind of like I'm on a cloud, just drifting in this comfortable place and watching the world below me catch on fire. But I'm okay, the fire keeps me warm and I'm out of danger.” Roger's lips twitched up just a bit.

 

“That's a long metaphor.” He said and Simon nodded, a shy smile creeping up on his face.

 

“Yeah.” He muttered.

 

“This is all really new to me, I mean affection and-”

 

“I get it.” Simon interrupted, offering a small smile and a shrug. “You don't have to say it yet.”

 

“I feel like I do, though.” Roger replied, suddenly growing more frustrated with himself. “I have that feeling, I think, but I just can't figure out what it means but you're saying it's love, except I don't know what that means, you know?” he didn't think he had ever spoken so much at once in his life, but everything in his brain had started to blend together into incoherence and he needed to get the words out before it was too late. He swallowed, everything beginning to stick to his throat. “My mum isn't around anymore. Dad says she died, slit her wrists long ways and shot herself in the head, or something. Says it happened when I was six or seven, but I don't remember. Most of my childhood is blocked from my memory. Dad took me to a doctor once because I was acting out, said I needed anger management and had severe PTSD from when mum died, 'cause I guess it happened right in front of me. I don't remember any of that, but sometimes I hear gunshots that aren't there, or get flashbacks of nothing but a lot of blood.” He glanced at Simon, the dark boy's eyes blown in shock and his hand covering his mouth. Roger grinned.

 

“It's not so bad, though. I mean, it's better than remembering right?” Simon didn't reply, but rather stared in shocked silence. “I think mum might've stopped dad's beatings, though. Or maybe they still happened, I don't really remember, but I think they got worse after she died. He hits me a lot for stupid shit I don't have control over. Likes to get out this old leather belt like it's 1952 and hits my arse or back or face as many times as he wants. Sometimes he'll slam my face into the wall. I broke my nose a few times from that, it's still pretty crooked and I guess I snore a bit. He'll force my hand on hot stove tops, or burn me with metal tools, punch my stomach pretty bad -anything he can think of, he'll do. He hit my today pretty bad. I had to leave the house and get fucked up with Merridew.” He felt Simon's hand grasp his own, squeezing in an attempt at reassurance. Roger squeezed back. “So I don't really know what love feels like. I don't really know what anything feels like.” Simon swallowed thickly, eyes glistening with the threat of tears.

 

“Did he leave marks on your back?” He asked. Roger's muscles tensed, having never heard that question before. As a matter of fact, he'd never told anyone about his family before. He nodded cautiously, remembering the red marks and bits of torn skin on his body that had probably begun to bruise over. “Can I see them?”

 

Roger turned away from the smaller boy, lifting his shirt over his head and throwing it to the floor. He heard Simon gasp behind him, delicate fingers tracing over the most tender spots on his skin. He tried to remain still, to act as though this were a normal occurrence and that the dark boy had nothing to worry about. He tensed when Simon's lips feathered over his skin, pressing light kisses to the spots where the belt had struck him.

 

“What are you doing?” He asked, voice catching his throat in panic. Simon pressed one last kiss to his shoulder blade before bringing his mouth to Roger's ear.

 

“Trying something. Is this okay?” he sounded so genuinely worried that roger nearly let out a breath of relief. He could trust Simon, he knew that much. The dark boy was so gentle and kind he knew nothing terrible would happen, and yet he felt tension building in his chest. No one had ever shown so much compassion on his behalf, nor had they ever heard the story of his family. He briefly mentioned his troubles when it came to his father to Merridew once when they were particularly thrashed, but that was the extent of it. Simon was the first to know. So he took a deep breath and nodded, making the smaller boy grin and kiss the side of his neck.

 

“I love you.” He muttered again, lips pressed against battered skin and old scars. He shifted, sliding off the bed and kneeling in front of Roger, knees on the carpeted floor. He kissed the other's hip, lips traveling over the small tattoo there, a single word written in Israeli, the home to Roger's own heritage, meaning _savage._ Simon's teeth scraped over it, making Roger tangle his fingers in the dark locks and pull. Simon's thumb hooked around the button on Roger's jeans, popping it open and shimming the trousers down his legs. He placed delicate kisses on the inside of Roger's thigh, thumb tracing the ink on the outside. His third tattoo was still a new, just barely healing. Plastered on his right thigh was a picture of a boars head, beady eyes red and narrow, black fur matted to animalistic savagery, and blood tripping from yellow fangs. It was his personal favorite tattoo.

 

Simon's tongue trailed over his growing bulge, teasing his through the fabric of his boxers and making him growl, nails scrapping against the dark boy's scalp. Simon grinned, sinking his teeth into the tender inside of Roger's thigh, making him let out a low moan. “I love you.” He mumbled again, a sense of arrogance in his words.

 

“Fuck.” Roger moaned, mind too far gone to reply. Simon's fingers hooked under the waist band of his underwear, pulling them down to release the strain on his cock. The dark boy took it in his hand, tugging slightly and making Roger' gasp. He licked a strip on the underside of the other's dick, tongue trailing teasingly slow, the glint in his eyes filled with playful arrogance. He took the tip in his mouth, swirling his tongue and hollowing his cheeks. He slid down as far as he could, the tip hitting the back of his throat and swallowing Roger's moans. He sucked, bobbing in a rhythm that made Roger's head spin and tongue skillfully running along the length. Roger could feel every one of his nerves ignite, teeth gritting together to keep from any sounds escaping his mouth. It wasn't long before he saw white, the sensation of pure bliss washing over him as Simon continued to swallow him down, cheeks hollowed to perfection.

 

“Fuck.” He breath, pupils blown as he began to come down from his high. Simon wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, big green eyes staring up at him as they waited for praise. “I love you, too.”

 


	9. Tainted Perfection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes

When the cold weather rolled around and school started once again, Jack couldn't help but feel a sense of nostalgia for the sun's warmth or the weeks he spent not doing much of anything. He had managed to get Ralph over a handful of times over the span of their holiday, each one more frustrating than the last, all ending in a sense of bitter disappointment. Frankly, the only thing bluer than Jack's mood at this point was his balls. He had barely gotten to touch the golden boy in their time together, fingers tracing over soft, tanned skin, or lips sucking bruises into Ralph's neck was the extent of the sexual side of their relationship. The romantic side was lacking, too, seeing as the golden boy still insisted on pretending he and Jack were nothing -two strangers who passed each other on the streets and not anything more. When they were alone, Ralph was always irritable and tended to snap, as if he still hated Merridew. To be entirely fair, he probably did, if just a little.

 

It wasn't as though Jack was a particularly romantic lad in the first place. Flowers and candle lit dinners weren't something he cared about or enjoyed and he had never been in a proper relationship, which was a good thing in his opinion. In that reguard, he was greatful that Ralph didn't expect much out of _whatever_ was going on between them, but a part of him almost wished he did. It was the egotistical side of Jack speaking -which was the part of his personality that usually did the talking- but he was so used to doing the ignoring, to have others fancy him without expecting anything in return, that he was almost _offended_ that the golden boy wasn't the same. Granted, he was probably used to his own fair share of suitors and perhaps it was in his nature to reject those that reached out to him with romantic intentions, but that fact didn't leave Jack any less annoyed.

 

They ended up in maths together, a subject Jack tended to excel at, among most others, as well as games, which was more in golden boy's territory. Jack was a reasonably athletic peron, with fair abilities in sports and a bit of defined muscle on his legs and abdomen, but games was the only subject Jack was truly average at, which meant the class was always a blow to his ego. And of course the only subject where he couldn't show off, he had to be place in it with Ralph, who was _ridiculously_ athletic. Not that the golden boy was _bad_ at his other lessons, just that he didn't tend to shine in anything besides their physical education. And of course they didn't talk to each other in games, of fucking course, because _why_ would Ralph bother with someone like Merridew when he had hoards of pretty girls swarming him, begging to be chosen for his team.

 

It took Jack a while to realize there were any changes in their relationship at all. Ralph was stubborn and subtle and he would never outright admit his attraction to Jack-bloody-Merridew, but the little things had changed. The way the golden boy would walk a little too close to him in the halls, letting their shoulders brush together, the lingering glaces that were just a bit too long to be considered casual, the way he would bite his lip and flip golden blond hair out of his eyes when a pretty girl was talking to him -looking right past her and staring directly at Jack. Because even though what was going on between them wasn't exactly a relationship, and it certainly wasn't love, there was _something_ , and even the golden boy himself wasn't too stubborn to deny that.

 

And that was just in school. Their time alone together began to shift as the days went on, every makeout session getting more physical than the last and every word shared between them less biting than before. They would smoke cigarettes on Merridew's bed, Ralph complaining about the taste of menthol and the smell of tobacco as he continued to huff down his cancer stick. Jack would always grin, knowing full well that the fair boy was hooked on the sweet release of nicotine, all because his pride was too strong to turn down a challenge, and it was Jack's fault. So Merridew would blow clouds of gray smoke up at his ceiling and wonder what Ralph's voice would sound like quaking in ecstasy. The thought made a grin spread across his lips. Ralph would go over to Merridew's after school, claiming that it didn't mean anything and he just wanted to get his homework done without his father's distractions, but Jack knew it was bullshit. So he would smirk and pretend to do his work for what was roughly five minuets before he had the golden boy pinned underneath him, withering in little gasps at the pair of lips bruising his own.

 

There were features of Ralph's body that Jack had come to appreciate over the span of their time together. It was just little things, minute details that seemed impossible to notice, but after spending so much time admiring the fair lad, Jack had begun to notice them. Like the way his chest heaved when he was frustrated, or the perfect, upturned shape of his nose that caused the slightest wheeze when he laughed, the way his dimples caved in when he frowned too heavily, or how he liked to stretch his arms over his head, making his shirt lift slightly, enough for Jack to see the tiniest sliver of his toned stomach. How Merridew longed to properly touch him, to kiss every inch of that golden tanned skin, digging his teeth in those sensitive areas that would make the fair boy howl and tremble under his tongue. Jack wanted to see all his perfection unravel, leaving him a quaking mess of pleas and moans and he couldn't imagine anyone else tainting such a perfect creation. No one could ruin Ralph like Jack craved to, there was no way he would allow such a precious thing fall into the hands of anyone else.

 

And as he kissed those full, bubblegum pink lips that always tasted of a different, delicious flavor, he ran his fingertips along the skin stretched across his ribcage, causing gooseflesh to prickle golden tanned skin. He tasted of bubblegum this time -bubblegum pink mixed with a scent of lemongrass and sunshine, a combination that couldn't have better screamed _Ralph._ Jack was so tired of waiting, of fantasizing about a moment he couldn't seem to grasp, but his ego couldn't bear another rejection, couldn't take the lack of desire or want.

 

“Jack,” Ralph mumbled, and Merridew prayed that he wouldn't hear the fateful words. He didn't want another “stop”, another “I can't”, another “no”. But it didn't come, nothing negative spilled from the golden boy's lips and as Jack lifted his head to stare into those dark blue eyes, he was met with flushed cheeks, kiss swollen lips, and wide eyes. An expression of desire. Ralph's fingers tangled into red curls, tugging slightly and bringing their faces closer, making their lips brush together in something that was almost a kiss. “Touch me.” His whispered, pressing soft lips to Jack's own.

 

For a moment, Merridew was too stunned to react, briefly considering the possibility that he was in a dream, that this wasn't happening. But Ralph's lips were on his, warm, toned body pinned beneath his own as those fingers ran through his curls and in that moment, Jack wouldn't have cared whether or not he was dreaming. So he kissed back with vigor, trailing his lips down the side of the fair lad's neck, sinking his teeth into the tender spot where his neck began running into his shoulder. Ralph gasped, nails digging into Jack's scalp as he tugged harshly at the red curls, making Merridew emit an almost animalistic growl. His pressed his palm to the front of Ralph's jeans, grinding the heal of his hand into his bulge and making the fair boy groan. “You have no idea how long I've been wanting to do this.” He murmured against Ralph's ear. He cupped the fair boy fully through his clothes, squeezing ever so slightly. “How long I've pictured your like this, withering underneath me and completely at my disposal.”

 

“Jack,” He gasped, pupils blown. He sucked his bottom lip between his teeth, gnawing at the bubblegum skin as his nails dug into the other boy's back. “Jack, please.” It was a whimper, a pathetic sound of defeat, as if he _feared_ just what Merridew would do to him, how he would _claim_ his body like a wild animal. And Jack couldn't help but love it, but revel in every ounce of terror he saw in the fair boy's eyes as he continued to stroke him through clothes. He felt like a predator that had been hunting its prey down for far too long. And now _he_ was in Jack's clutches, ready and willing and completely at his disposal.

 

The bubblegum and the sunshine and the morning dew were all too sweet and pure for Jack's taste, he needed red hot and bitter, the sweet burn of alcohol or the destruction of menthol. Everything the fair boy had to offer was sweetness -a pool of sticky, sugary mess that left the taste of honey on Jack's lips and he wouldn't hesitate to break that, to transform his sunshine into a dark, cloudy abayss. Ralph was every bit of light and purity that Jack had ever known, ever gotten the privileged to destroy, and for a moment, as he touched this ray of sunshine and perfection, he realized the true nature of their relationship. He realized that every bit of affection he had ever shown, every hint of kindness, was because of a deep rooted obession, the kind of thing that set in when they were only children. He needed Ralph's warmth and light and innocence, he needed to take that purity and  _devour_ it, to transform his precious golden boy into something dark and twisted because that was what he lived for. To destroy the good and toss it out when he was done.

 

His mind wandered to Roger, the only person he had ever had something close to friendship with, and wondered what his intentions were with the batty kid. He pressed himself into Ralph more, lips moving together in something that was sloppy and aggressive, sinking his teeth into those full, spit slicked and kiss swollen lips. He knew Roger -knew that fucked up kid better than anyone else could. He knew his twisted fantasies and his fucked up mind like the back of his hand. Jack knew what that kid felt, what he thought, what he liked, and the more he thought about it, the more confused he got as to _why_ his friend-like associate would even bother with the kid he was with. At least Jack had his reasons for the fair boy, as difficult as they would be to explain, but that other kid -that small, batty, weird kid- couldn't have been more different from Roger.

 

“What are you thinking about?” Ralph's voice snapped him back to reality as he gazed down at the boy underneath him, blond hair deheavled and golden face flushed red. Jack hummed, removing his hand from the fair boy's front, making him whine a bit in complaint.

 

“What's your biggest fear?” He asked, watching as Ralph's face morphed from lustful to confused. He ran his thumb along Jack's cheek, brushing away a few strand of red hair as his wide blue eyes searched for any possible explaination.

 

“Being alone.” He said, voice soft and dreamy. “What's yours?”

 

“Losing control.” Jack answered, running his tongue over his bottom lip. Ralph nodded, letting the tips of his fingers run over those pale, orange freckles. “I can't figure you out, you know.” He said, leaning in slightly to the golden boy's touch. “I'm usually good at figuring people out. The things they like or don't like, why they are the way they are, shit like that. It's easy to control someone when I've figured them out.”

 

“Why do you want to control me?” Jack sighed, turning his head slightly to kiss the palm of Ralph's hand.

 

“I don't know how else to deal with people.” He murmured into the fair boy's skin, eyelashes fluttering against the inside of his thumb.

 

“I like you without being manipulated.” Ralph said, propping himself up just enough to make the tips of their noses touch. “And right now, I really want you to touch me.” Jack brought his gaze to the fair boy's, icy eyes, cold and narrow, locking with wide, glimmering ones.

 

He pressed their lips together, licking his way into the golden boy's mouthas his hand pressed between them, palming at Ralph's front. The fair boy mewled and pulled Jack in for a deep kiss, their lips messy as hot breath mixed together. Kisses trailed across the golden boy's neck, sharp teeth sinking themselves into already bruising areas as Jack's lips sucked at the skin. Ralph clawed at his back, dragging his nails down the pale, freckled skin that peeked through where Jack's shirt was riding up and leaving red scratch marks. The ginger groaned, sinking his teeth into the fair boy's collarbone, having to physically stop himself from tearing the skin with his canines. Ralph gasped, arching up slightly off the mattress as his knees squeezed at Jack's waist, almost as if he wanted to wrap his legs around the other.

 

“I'm gonna claim you, pretty boy.” Jack _growled_ , applying an almost painful amount of pressure to Ralph's groin with the heel of his hand. “After tonight, everyone will know who you belong to.” His voice dropped as he brought his mouth up to the fair boy's ear, popping open the button on his jeans and slowly sliding his hand underneath them. “You'll be mine.” He grasped Ralph's dick, pumping teasingly slow, letting his fingers glide over the shaft in an agonizing manner. He smirked, running his thumb over the head and watching as the golden boy's chest began to heave and his cheeks flushed bright red. “You're impressive,” Jack murmured, biting lightly at Ralph's earlobe. “Not as impressive as me, of course, but good nonetheless.” He squeezed slightly, watching with satisfaction as Ralph arched up into his touch, fingers tangling into ginger hair and tugging at the strands. Jack grinned and tugged at the fair boy's length, fingers trailing over tender skin as the warmth of his palm caused beautiful friction. Ralph murmured something incoherent, a soft whimper of pleasure that managed to slip past his lips as he mouthed at the skin on the other's neck. He bit softly at the tender area of skin just over Jack's clavicle, teeth gently scraping over freckled flesh. Merridew hummed, cradling Ralph's head with his free hand as if he were a small child -delicate and pure.

 

“You're so pretty.” Jack murmured, retracting his hand from its hold around Ralph's dick, making the fair boy whine. The ginger shushed him, placing soft kisses down his body, sinking his teeth into tender areas to make the fair golden boy howl. He bit harshly at Ralph's hipbones, making sure to leave a dark purple bruise in the shape of teeth marks, as his sucked at the skin with vigor. The golden boy released broken pleas of _more_ , making Jack's lips stretch into a smug sort of grin. He ran one hand up the inside of Ralph's thigh, stopping just below his grion before using his other hand to yank the fair boy's jeans off, taking his underwear with them.

 

The first thing Jack fixated on was the golden boy's cock, red and flushed and hard as hell, with purple viens decorating the underside. He was impressive enough, perhaps an inch or so above average, but Jack found pride swell in his chest to find that he was, in fact, bigger. He trailed his eyes down the other's legs, trying to take in every inch of golden tanned perfection. His was toned, which was no surprise, with soft, smooth skin void of any hair. Jack had to physically stop himself from singgering at the fact that Ralph bothered to shave his legs, considering he didn't think his golden little sunshine would be pleased with being laughed at in such a vulnerable position. Any form of amusement he had faltered quickly upon seeing the white, prominent scars that decorated the tops of Ralph's thighs, leaving ugly welts on what would have otherwise been perfection. Jack softly ran his thumb over one, feeling as every muscle in the fair boy's being tensed underneath his touch. Merridew let his eyes travel to the side of Ralph's left thigh, finding perfectly spaced rows of recently inflicted cuts. He examined the otherside only to find the same thing. He lifted his head slowly, gaze meeting the sheer panic engraved in those dark blue eyes.

 

“What the fuck is this?” He asked, letting his finger tips run over the fresh wounds. Ralph hissed, swatting Jack's hands away and propping himself up on his elbows.

 

“Don't ask stupid questions, Merridew.” He replied, cheeks burning bright red as his gaze fell to the floor. “You're smarter than that.” Jack furrowed his brow, scooting closer to the other's body to cup that perfect face in his hands.

 

“Why are you doing this to yourself?” Ralph pushed himself away from Merridew's touch, sitting up fully to crossing his arms and bringing his knees up to his chest for the sake of feigning modesty. He scoffed, as if the entire situation was bitterly funny.

 

“Don't pretend you care, Jack, it won't get you anywhere.” He responded. The ginger reached his hand out to touch him, but Ralph smacked his hand away, shooting a glare that reminded Jack of daggers.

 

“I _do_ care,” He insisted.

 

“Well don't!” Ralph shouted, attempting to stand from his place. Panicked, Jack grabbed his wrist to keep him from leaving, making the fair boy shoot another glare in his direction.  “I don't need you to be involved in this, you're not my therapist, you're not my friend, and you're _not_ my boyfriend.” Ralph paused, turning back to face Merridew and exposing a flushed red face. “We're not close enough to be having this conversation.” Jack scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest as a bitter smirk stretched across his features.

 

“Funny how your biggest fear is being alone, but you keet pushing me away.” Ralph stayed silent, unable to look at Merridew in the eyes. The tension in his muscles caused his entire body to stiffen as the defined muscle on his legs began to ripple under his skin. Jack stare at the fair boy's thighs, partly to admire his athletic physic and partly to study the welts in his skin. “What did you think would happen?” He asked, making Ralph's head snap up to glare at him. “Did you think I wouldn't notice?”

 

“I don't know what I was thinking,” Ralph mumbled, his voice low and breathy. “I guess sexual desire clouded my judgement.” He snagged his lower lip between his teeth, eyes fluttering down to stare at his feet. Jack blinked, brows furrowing into a scowl. He cupped Ralph's face, doing his best to keep his touch as gentle as possible. He pressed a kiss to the fair boy's lips, feeling the pride swell in his heart as those soft, full lips melted into his own. He placed his hand on Ralph's thigh, letting his fingers brush over the welts and scars on golden tanned skin, feeling as every individual muscle tensed underneath his fingertips. Ralph sighed, a cute, high pitched noise that was almost a whine and made Jack want to do nothing more than take him right then and there. He loved the noises the other boy made, loved swallowing every moan that slipped past his lips like sustinance as his hand slipped from Ralph's thigh to wrap around his half-hard cock.

 

“Jack,” The golden boy breathed, hands on Merridew's chest, every bit of his warmth seeping into the other's body. “Fuck.” He groaned this time, fingers curling into the fabric of Jack's shirt, tugging slightly at the material. The red head's grip on his dick tightened, his large, calloused hand sliding up and down the fair boy's length at an agonizing pace. They fell back to lay down on the bed completely, Jack nestled between the fair boy's legs at he tugged at his hard, flushed red cock. He pressed wet, open mouthed kisses to the skin of that pretty, golden tanned neck, admiring his previously left hickies. He sunk his teeth into the Ralph's shoulder, sharp canines digging into tanned flesh and leaving prominent indents in his skin. The golden boy gasped, digging his nails into the skin of Jack's back and dragging them down, leaving red, aggitated lines. The red headed boy growled, pinning Ralph's hands above he head and watching with satisfaction at the brief look of fear that passed through those dark blue eyes.

 

“I'm going to hurt you, pretty boy.” Jack said, a wide grin stretching across his face. “I'm going to hurt you _so good_ and you'll be screaming my name.” He could feel every nerve in Ralph's body tremble under his touch, his breathing shallow and uneven. Ralph gulped, swiping his tongue over his lips before carefully biting at the corner of his bottom lips.

 

“Please,” He moaned. “Please hurt me, daddy.” Jack paused for a moment, icy blue eyes widening with what seemed to be surprise. His muscles tensed slightly and his eyebrows furrowed as his nails dug into the skin on Ralph's wrists.

 

“What did you just say?” He whispered, voice low and gruff, making the fair boy's bite on his lip deepen with nerves. He was trembling, the muscles in his legs shaking with _something_ that seemed like fear, but wasn't quite there. Jack lowered his head, his lips brushing against the shell of the fair boy's ear. “Say it again.”

 

The silence that followed was frozen and tense, the fair boy's face slowly shifting between scared to confused to something almost completely unreadable. He swallowed thickly, the beginnings of a grin forming on his lips.

 

“Daddy,” His whispered, voice breathy and teasing and Jack could feel a shiver run up the small of his back, traveling through his spine and causing goosebumps to appear on his skin. His flipped the fair boy over, causing his to emit a surprised gasp as he was pinned to the mattress, face squished in the pillows. Jack rubbed his front -still jean clad and fully clothed- over Ralph's bare arse, rutting against him like an animal in heat, growling out little grunts of pleasure at the friction. He pulled the fair boy's waist toward him, causing Ralph's bum to stick in the air as he bent over him, digging sharp teeth into golden skin. He brought his hand down, slapping his palm against Ralph's bum, watching as he jumped slightly at the stinging sensation. He laid another smack to Ralph's arse, watching the red hand print slowly fade away with pride and listening to the gasps of pain spill from between the fair boy's lips.

 

“I want to watch you stretched yourself.” Jack growled in his ear, feeling every one of the golden boy's muscles tense underneath him. Slowly, he watched Ralph's hand reach between the two of them, fingers smoothing over his own bottom and carefully pushing into his entrance, completely dry. He hissed slightly, sucking in a great deal of air from between his teeth as he curled his single digit inside his body. Jack grinned, palming at the flesh of Ralph's arse, smoothing over his back, and gripping his cock, letting his palm slide over the flesh ever so slightly. “Keep going,” He encouraged. “You're doing _so_ well.”

 

“It hurts.” Ralph murmured, pumping his finger in and out of himself, eyes squeezed shut. Jack stroked the fair boy's shaft, making him gasp and unintentionally push back on his own finger.

 

“Better?” Merridew purred, biting lightly at the fair boy's earlobe. Ralph hummed, nodding his head slightly. He smoothed his hands over the fair boy's bum, kneading at the flesh and making the boy under him sigh with content. He brought his hand down again, this time the blow less of a hit and more of a firm tap, as if to tell him to speed up. Hesitantly, he added a second finger, tensing completely at the pressure inside his body as he let out another hiss of pain. Jack shushed him softly, pressing sweet kisses to the back of his neck and smoothing calloused palms over soft skin.

 

“Wanna fuck you,” He murmured against the skin of the fair boy's neck, listening to the quiet gasp escape Ralph's vocal chords. Slowly, he pulled his fingers out of himself, lowering his hand to help support his body weight.

 

Jack reached over to the drawer by his bedside, pulling out a small bottle of lube and squirting a gerous amount into the palm of his hand. He unbuttoned his jeans with the other hand, pushing the denium material, along with his underwear, just far enough down his legs to release the hold on his dick. He spread the lubricant over his cock, putting forth all of his focus into not bucking up into his hand and finishing himself off then and there. He couldn't get over how _hard_ the boy below him was making him. Jack had never been so turned on by any of his other sexual partners, never in his life had he felt such a raw, uncontrollable _need_ to fill another person up entirely and fuck them until they were red and raw. He ran his fingers over the fair boy's entrance, massaging the ring of muscles surrounding his hole with the pad of his thumb to stimulate the nerves. Ralph let out a broken sort of moan, lips trembling and body quaking in agony. Jack replaced his thumb with the tip of his dick, circling the ring of nerves surrounding the fair boy's entrance, teasing him and watching as his body quivered with anticipation.

 

“Please, daddy, fuck me.” Ralph whimpered, making Jack smirk and sink his sharp teeth into the fair boy's shoulder, pushing his length in suddenly and throwing Ralph off balance. The fair boy cried out, a struggled sound that was a mix between pleasure and agony as Merridew's nails scraped down the length of his back, watching as the trails of red lines became inflammed with agitation. He snapped his hips slightly, reveling in just how warm and tight the golden boy was inside, a picture of utter perfection, just as Jack had imagined. He threaded one hand through the thick, honey blond hair, gripping at the back of Ralph's head as he continued to move his hips rhythmically and listen to those _gorgeous_ little whimpers coming from perfect pink lips. He pulled at that pretty blond hair, making the golden boy throw his head back and cry out, giving Jack perfect access to his neck. He scraped his teeth along Ralph's pulse, feeling his accelerated heartbeat under the touch of the red headed boy's tongue.

 

Jack slammed into him, stuffing the fair boy full of his cock and making him _scream_  Merridew's name, begging like a whore. Ralph's body began to quake, clearly on the edge of orgasm as his eyes squeezed shut and the flush in his face only seemed to grow. Jack gripped the base of his cock, stopping his climax as he completely stilled his movements. The fair boy whinned, almost letting out a broken sob of protest, which Jack quickly hushed. He pulled out then, making Ralph whimper in defeat, almost as if he belived they were done.

 

“Roll over,” Jack growled. “I want to see your face when you come.” The fair boy, stubborn as he could be when he wished, was surprisingly obedient in bed and did as he was told. Jack ran a hand down his newly exposed throat, marveling at his bare, gorgeous skin. He squeezed then, watching as those blue eyes widened with a mix of shock and ecstasy and a broken gasp of pleasure escaped his lips, making Merridew grin with pride. “I thought you might like being choked, pretty boy.” He said, releasing his hold on the other's throat and slowly trailing his fingers over the fair boy's collarbone. “Choked and spanked and fucked rough like a rag doll,” He continued, voice dropping to a low murmur. “You're so fucking perfect.”

 

He lifted Ralph's legs then, sliding into him once again without much struggle, a perfect fit. He snapped his hips up, wrapping his hands around the golden boy's throat to squeeze, to _hurt_ , and found personal satisfaction by the look of pure _bliss_ that crossed Ralph's features. He could feel a white wave of heat over come him, ready to burst from the seams, but he needed to make his lover come first, to watch the look of quivering satisfaction that crossed his features when he released. Jack replaced his hold on the other's throat with his teeth, biting down with force and listening to the struggled gasp that followed. He changed his angle, hitting the fair boy's prostate dead on and watching him struggle with pure _agony_ as Jack began to jerk him off. Within a moment, Ralph was coming, spreading his genetic fluids on their stomachs as he yelled Jack's name with a struggled cry. Merridew followed soon after, release shuttering over him as he came into Ralph's arse.

 

He collapsed on top of the fair boy, their heavy breathing mixing together, bodies slick with sweat and beginning to stick together. Jack could taste the lingering flavor of the fair boy on his tongue, eyes grazing over golden skin welted with hickies and teethmarks. He twitched his hips slightly, burrying his softening cock deeper into Ralph's arse and making the fair boy release a weak moan, still sensitive and overstimulated. Jack grinned and pulled out, agonizingly slow, bathing in the little squeaks and whimpers of pain coming from the golden boy's mouth. He rolled to the other side, giving Ralph a moment to breath, to have his body to himself once again.

 

“Bloody hell,” Jack said, voice low and grin wide. He turned back to Ralph, his hair wild and an almost insane look behind his icy blue eyes. “I just tainted God's perfect creation.”

 


	10. For You, My Love, Are the Only Thing That Can Heal This Pain

Therapy was always like hurricane for Simon, a storm of emotions that somehow managed to leave him worse off than ever before. He had to go three times a week for two hours a session and, honestly, Simon wasn't sure he knew enough words for all that talking. His therapist was a tall, red headed woman with a slim form and a few smile lines that crinkled around her eyes. She wore a pair of cat eye spectacles with bright blue frames and a metal chain to keep them from falling off her face. She was nice enough, if not a bit boring, and quite talkative. She asked a lot of questions, the sorts of things Simon found no comfort in sharing, as a means to get inside the dark boy's head. Roger had been brought up on numerous occasions since the end of Simon's summer holiday, which the dark boy wasn't sure was a good thing or a bad thing, but he really didn't want to talk about his relationship.

 

“How's that _boy_ you've been involved with?” She asked, smile wide and showing crooked teeth. She always put emphasis on the word _boy_ and never used the term “dating,” never referred to Roger as his boyfriend. She was uncomfortable with it, Simon could tell, but she didn't want the small, dark boy to know that. He sighed, picking at the hole on his worn jeans, little strands of fabric creeping out from the large tear over his knee. He refused to look at her because looking at her would mean opening up and he just wasn't ready for that.

 

“Roger,” He said, pausing a bit to remind her of his boyfriend's name. “is angry a lot. He likes to go into these scary fits of rage where he punches walls and breaks things.” He knew she'd ask for more details, that she'd tell him being _involved_ -it was always the word involved, wasn't it?- with someone like that isn't a healthy thing when it comes to relationships.

 

“Has he ever hit you?” She asked, concern evident in her voice as her smile wavered slightly. He knew that question was coming, called it from the get go. It was the same question she asked every time Roger was brought up, even if Simon was telling a good story. She was far too obsessed with his personal life.

 

“No,” He said, shaking his head with enough force to make a few thick strands of black hair fall into his eyes. “he tries to avoid throwing fits around me because he says he'll never stoop low enough to lay his hands on me.”

 

“Are you afraid that he will hit you during a fit?” She asked, the question, once again, completely expected. And again, Simon shook his head.

 

“I trust him.” He said simply. It was an automatic response, the thing he knew she wanted to hear and the same reply he always gave. However, that didn't stop it from being true.

 

“How does he usually calm down when he gets angry?” She asked. Simon paused, knowing full well of his boyfriend's methods of calming down, but not entirely certain how much he'd be willing to share with this woman sitting in front of him.

 

“Sex and drugs, mostly.” He said, pausing for a moment. “He smokes pot when I'm not around to get his mind off whatever it is that's upsetting him so much.” So maybe it was a little more than smoking pot, maybe he often turned to cocaine and narcotics to calm his nerves, but Simon didn't wish to explain that. His therapist raised her brow, setting her clipboard full of notes off to the side and folding her hands over her knee.

 

“And if you are around?” She asked, urging Simon to continue. The dark boy shifted uncomfortably, snagging his lower lip between his teeth and picking at the tear in his jeans.

 

“Rough sex is usually his solution. He likes to take his anger out on me without really _hitting_ me.” He admitted, a wide red blush spreading across his cheeks. “But if I say no, he stops and he always asks for my consent first and if what he's doing is okay, so it's not like he's, you know,” Simon paused, his words having come out in a rush. He could feel his face growing hotter by the second.

 

“Do you ever feel like you say yes, even if you don't want to? Just to make him happy?” She asked, making Simon's brow furrow slightly. He shrugged one shoulder, unsure of how to answer.

 

“Maybe sometimes, but it always feels really good,” He paused, not daring too look at the woman in front of him in the eyes, his face beet red and burning hot. He swallowed thickly, opening his mouth to continue. “And sometimes I may not feel like intimacy, but once we start I like it.” He paused again, looking up at her with a wide, bright red blush. “I didn't mean to be so crude, I'm sorry.” He clarified.

 

“That's alright, Simon.” His therapist said, a fake, uncomfortable smile plastered on her face. “You're supposed to be able to open up to me about anything. This is a judgement free zone.” She paused, taking a moment to write a comment on her clipboard as Simon remained silent. “What is it about physical intimacy that makes your so uncomfortable?”

 

The small boy stiffened, shifting awkwardly in his seat as he tried desperately not to let his face flush bright red. He didn't respond for a moment, just repeatedly opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water. “I guess, um,” He managed to stammer after a moment of silence. “Well, I just don't see how it's relates to my mental health?” His therapist hummed, tapping the tip of her pen against her bottom lip, her smile faltering slightly as she stared into the dark boy's eyes.

 

“I just need to make sure your relationship with your partner, sexual or otherwise, is healthy.” She clarified. Simon nodded, letting his gaze flicker back to the carpet. There was a beat of silence, awkward and stiff that allowed Simon's mind to wander a bit. He didn't like talking about Roger to his therapist, didn't like how often she brought him into conversation. His romantic life wasn't really anyone else's business and she was only there to make sure he wouldn't try to off himself again, that was all there was to it. She let out a large huff of air through her nostrils as her pen began scribbling notes on her paper. Simon bounced his leg, subconsciously pulling down his shirt sleeve to hide the fresh welts. After a moment, she looked up, eyes sudenly having hardened. “Any thoughts of suicide this week?” She asked, to which Simon shook his head. He always shook his head at that question, whether it was true or not. “What about self mutilation?” She asked. Simon hesitated, shifting a bit in his seat as he pushed back a few strands of his black hair.

 

“Yes.” He said finally, unable to look her in the eye. He always answered that way because it was always true. And before she could ask the next question, he quickly rushed out his answer. “I've acted on the thoughts, too.” He said, pushing his sleeve up to reveal the welted, scabbed over skin. Slashes of dark crimson decorated his entire forearm, leaving no amount of caramel colored skin untouched. Underneath the fresh wounds were long white scars, evidence from previous rendezvous. She nodded, scribbling down a few notes.

 

“How often do you cut yourself?” She asked. This was an answer Simon had rehearsed and he had rehearsed it quite well, for the answer hadn't changed since his first self inflicted injury way back when he was only eleven years old.

 

“At least once a day everyday, sometimes two or three times on particularly bad days. I bring my razor blades to school in case I need to let off steam in the bathroom during class.” That same damn line was beginning to sound like nails on a chalk board. How he wished he didn't have to repeat that answer.

 

“Do you hurt yourself anywhere else besides your left forearm?” He sighed, preapring for another rehearsed response.

 

“The cuts are on both arms, traveling from my wrists to the tops of my shoulders. They're also on the tops of my thighs and hips and a few scars on my stomach from the last time I tried to kill myself.” She nodded, clicking her pen with vigor as she contemplated writing that down. She quickly decided against it, considering she had heard the same words a million and one times before.

 

“If you were to kill yourself today, do you know how you'd do it?” Simon hesitated, this question new to him and he didn't have a rehearsed answer. He bounced his leg, pulling his sleeve down quickly and pushing his hair out of his face. He knew exactly how he'd kill himself, for he was always prepared with a way to end his life, a way that would be quick and easy and different from anything he'd ever tried. But he also knew this was a trick, for no one had a genuine plan for suicide besides a suicidal person.

 

“I don't know,” He lied, fidgeting slightly. “I suppose it would have to be something I've never tried before,” _like hanging myself_ , were the words he didn't say out loud. _Or electrocating myself._ “Because I think it would be stupid to try to kill myself the same way every time, but I don't have a plan because I haven't been thinking about it recently.” _Liar_. A nasty, vicious voice whispered inside his mind, nails trying to claw its way out. _You're a filthy fucking liar._ Simon tried to mentally shush it, knowing that the voices weren't real, that it was all in his mind, but he couldn't control it now, for The Beast had been unleashed and there was no stopping such a horrible creature now. It continued to claw at his skull, whispering cruel words in his eardrum. _Liar, swine, whore._ “I'm sorry,” Simon said after a moment, the voice too loud over his own words. “I'm sorry, the voice is back.”

 

“Which one?” She asked, leaning forward in her chair.

 

“The Beast.” He replied, cringing at it's wicked laugh as those damned claws scraped against his forehead. His therapist pressed her lips together in a firm line, humming slightly with disapproval.

 

“That one is a nasty little bugger, isn't he?” She asked, to which Simon nodded his head. “Remember what we've gone over. Inhale,” She commanded, to which the dark boy slowly inhaled, counting to ten in his mind. With each passing number, the beast's cruel voice became quieter. “Now exhale.” She said and Simon did as he was told, counting up to ten. He continued the breathing until the little demonic voice dispersed entirely.

 

“Is The Beast the one that tells you to kill yourself?” She asked. He shook his head slightly, not blaming his therapist for being unable to keep up with all the little voices in his head. He had a hard time keeping up with them, too.

 

“The Beast is only a henchman. He tells me bad things, tries to make me feel like shit and get me to be vulnerable so _The Thing_ can convince me to do bad things. He makes me cut myself every day, makes sure that if I don't take out every frustration on myself than he'll make the people I care about suffer. He doesn't want me to feel okay.”

 

“Do you have a voice to help you fight off _The Thing_?” She asked.

 

“The Hero.” Simon answered. “He's the only one who can control _The Thing._ ”

 

“And what about the others?”

 

“They're The Nameless Ones. A bunch of useless chatter that doesn't do much more than annoy me for the fun of it. They're easy to push down, especially when The Hero is present, but he gets tired and doesn't like to come out much. I don't mind, really, I understand him and I know he helps when he can but sometimes the others are too much and he's only one Hero.” Simon shifted again, the topic a bit awkward for him to discuss with another person, even if these were the same words his therapist had heard a million times before.

 

Therapy drew to a close, leaving Simon in the building's parking lot as thick, heavy drops of rain pattered against the asphalt, leaving the dark boy a shivering puddle of water and despair. He kept his eyes open for his mother's little red sports car, the type of flashy thing that drew far too much attention when ever she passed anyone on the street. Simon sat on the curb, crossing his arms over his chest and bowing his head to keep the rain from hitting his eyes. Drops of water rolled off the bridge of his nose and hit the pavement with a slight _plop_ , blending in splendidly with the rain. He attempted to push the wet hair out of his eyes, but the damp strands seemed to have glued themselves to his forehead, sticking against caramel coloured skin. A loud car horn honked from the other side of the parking lot, causing the dark boy to lift his gaze only to be met with his mother's car. He smiled at her and stood from his place, walking toward her vehicle with his head bowed.

 

His mother was a short, talkative woman who grew up just on the outskirts of New Dehli in India. Her English was very thick and accented, with just enough random Hindi words thrown in to confuse anyone she was talking to. Simon could speak very little Hindi, but he knew just enough to keep up with whatever nonsense she tended to blabber on about whenever she got particularly upset. Although she preferred not to speak English when she could avoid it, she was very fluent, regardless of her heavy accent, and had made a name for herself as an accomplished business woman, which meant she was rarely ever home, leaving Simon with his father most of the time. Not that the dark boy complained much. His father was quiet and introverted, so they didn't spend much time talking and dinner was often eaten in front of the television, much to his mother's disapproval. She was a traditional woman who liked to wear Sari's and cook Bajji. His father, on the other hand, was a white British man who preferred a burger over all the spices and vegetables of Indian food.

 

His mother greeted him with her typical chatter upon entering the car, to which Simon offered a warm smile and politely nodded his head to whatever she was saying. He tended to zone out whenever his mother spoke, seeing as she rarely ever had anything important to say and never gave him a chance to weigh in. he listened to her soothing chatter throughout the duration of the car ride, catching a few Hindi swears whenever traffic got particularly aggravating or mentions of dinner for that night.

 

“Did the good doctor refill your pills?” She asked, not taking her eyes off the road. Simon sighed, tired of having the same conversation with her over and over again.

 

“No, mum, my therapist is there for me to talk to. My perscription will get refilled the next time I see my psychiatrist.” She didn't say anything for a moment, which was a bit unsettling as Simon couldn't remember the last time he expirienced silence with his mum around.

 

“So do you have new pills?” She asked after a moment, turning onto their street. Simon pressed his lips together, growing increasingly annoyed with every words she spoke.

 

“No,” He said, voice soft and quiet. “I didn't get any pills. My therapist doesn't do that.”

 

“Then why do we pay for these appointments, eh?” She glared at him pointedly, large brown eyes hardening, as if it were Simon's fault.

 

“Because that's what the people at the hospital recommended. I have a therapist to talk to and a psychiatrist to give me medications. They're both different but necessary.” He couldn't remember how many times he had to explain this to his mother, who never seemed to listen to a word he said. She pulled into their driveway, giving the dark a boy a look, as if telling him to get out of the car. He quickly unbuckled his seat belt and scurried inside, relieved to be done with the conversation. He truly hated talking to his mother.

 

Upon entering his room, he immediately plopped himself down on the bed, a large, queen sized mattress covered by a bright green comforters and an array of pillows. His cat, an orange and black calico named Mittens, for the tufts of white fur surrounding her paws, jumped into his lap. She purred slightly, rubbing her head under Simon's chin as the small, dark boy began petting her absentmindedly. She was strangely affectionate for a feline, seeming to always be begging for Simon's attention and constantly wanting to be pet, almost as if she were a dog. The dark boy didn't mind, however, he was grateful to his companion for serving as a means of distraction whenever his emotions began to run wild. He scratched behind her ears, making her head cock to the side with each passing scratch as the dark boy grinned down at her. He wrapped his arms around her, placing a kiss to the top of her head and allowing himself to lay down fully, the cat still perched a top his chest. She looked around the room, face showing a bored laziness as she hopped off of Simon to curl up onm the pillow next to his head. He turned to his side to snuggle up next to her, nose buried in her soft fur.

 

“I love you.” He murmured, to which Mittens responded with a gentle purr, as if she understood what he was saying. Obviously, she didn't, but Simon took comfort in it, nonetheless.

 

 

* * *

 

School proved itself to be as much of a drag as always, with monotone teachers dragging on about one thing or another that Simon couldn't force himself to care about and the typical obnoxious gits sporting their socks with marijuana leaves and ugly studded belts to keep up their uniform slacks. The dark boy found humor in the general misconceptions of British boys being these wonderfully charming lads who drink too much tea and have an incredible consciousness whenever it came to manners, when that was fairly far from the truth. Teenage boys are teenage boys, reguardless of what country one finds themselves in.

 

He rested his elbow against the furnished wood on his desk, placing his chin in the palm of his hand as his maths teacher continued to drone about _whatever_ the lesson was about. A few voices in the back of his mind began chattering unintelligible white noise among themselves, the conversation more annoying than harmful and making Simon want to shake his head in irritation. He pressed his index finger to his temple, his brows coming together slightly in concentration as he attempted to press away the noise. The Nameless Ones never seemed to leave him alone, which would have been an issue if they were harmful, but it always seemed as though they were the least of his medication's concern. When his phone buzzed in his pocked, he nearly dismissed it as the noises floating around in his imagination, if it hadn't been for the vibrations against his thigh. Slowly, the dark boy glanced around the room before retriving it from his pocket.

 

**From: Roger <3**

 

_Meet me in the front corner of the school._

_The area where all the smokers meet and_

_teachers never come by?_

 

Simon chewed his lower lip, glancing up at the boared in the front of the classroom to make sure his teacher wasn't watching him. His fingers shook with nerves, making it difficult to type out a proper reply.

 

**To: Roger <3**

 

_I don't think I can get out of class, love :(_

 

He had never skipped a class before, too scared of the consequences and the potential of getting caught. He couldn't imagine what Roger would have to say to him that would be so important, anyway. His phone buzzed again, the quiet vibration suddenly screaming in his ear drums, but not seeming to bother any of his classmates.

 

**From: Roger <3**

 

_Tell your teacher you have to go to the_

_bathroom or something. It's urgent._

 

Simon sighed, shoving his phone back in his pocket and drumming his fingers against his desk. He could use an excuse to get out of maths, and if Roger said it was urgent that it must've been, right? Well, probably not, but it help his morals to think his was doing the right thing by getting out of his lecture. He swallowed thickly before raising his hand, praying none of his classmates were staring.

 

“Yes, Simon?” His teacher said, halting the lecture entirely. He could feel his voice getting caught in his throat, thighs quivering with anxiety as he slowly lowered his arm.

 

“Um,” He started, cheeks burning bright red as he felt the entire class's eyes burning holes into his head. He really hated speaking in front of large groups of people. He tugged at the sleeves of his uniform shirt, suddenly noticing the little peak of skin peering out from underneath the cloth. “I just, um,” He paused again, unable to get the words out. “I was just wondering if I could use the loo?” He looked at his teacher hopefully, green eyes glistening with plea. His professor nodded, sympathy written in his eyes as Simon quickly stood from his seat, shouldering his messenger back and briskly walking out of the room to avoid anymore confrontation. His cheeks burned bright red as he rushed down the empty hallway toward the area of the school where he was meeting Roger.

 

Outside, the sharp wind whistled through falling tree leaves, making Simon wrap his arms around himself for warmth as he attempted not to freeze. He really should have thought to wear his blazor that day, not accounting for such a blustery wind. Goose flesh prickled his dark skin and the wind blew strands of black hair into his face, making his visibility slightly more limited. He found Roger easily, seeing as they were the only two outside and the whisps of gray smoking coming from the lit cigarette were more or less a dead give away.

 

His kissed Roger upon their hellos, his mouth tasting of nicotine and menthol, a flavour Simon had come quite acquainted to over the past few months. They sat on the rocks and gravel, cross legged and silent as the dark boy watched the last bit of Roger's cigarette burn away into nothingness. They sat close, cuddled up next to each other in their comfortable quiet, the heat of the taller boy's body helping Simon's body adjust better to the cold. Roger's arm snaked around his waist, pulling him closer as his lips pressed a sweet kiss to the top of the dark boy's head. Simon smiled sweetly, nuzzling against the curve of Roger's shoulder

 

“Did you actually have something urgent to tell me?” He murmured into the fabric of the other's button down, to which the taller smiled and shook his head.

 

“I just want to see you.” He mumbled back, his words burrowing themselves into Simon's hair. The dark boy grinned, a large blush spreading across his cheeks as he tucked a few strands of hair behind his ear, eyes glued to the ground.

 

“That's sweet.” He responded, feeling Roger's thumb hook under his chin, gently lifting his head to stare into the other's eyes. He pressed their lips together again, soft and sweet and filled with affection. Simon kissed back, wrapping his arms around the other's necks and pulling them closer until he found himself straddling Roger's hips. A pair of strong, calloused hands gripped his slim waist, thumbs pressing into the divots of delicate hipbones, making Simon whine softly. Their lips still moved together in a soft, cherished pace as Roger's hands moved from the dark boys waist to slip to the small of his back, hugging him closer as if they were moments away from being pulls apart. The palm of Simon's hand reach over to cup Roger's face, small, delicate fingers twisting into an unruly mess of black hair, pulling just slightly.

 

They continued to allow their kisses to be soft and affectionate, lips slow as each kiss deepened, unable to break apart. Simon felt as if they were going to mold together, so close and cherished, as if Roger were the curve of the dark boy's nose, the strands of black hair spilling out from the top of his head, each passing breath escaping his lungs. He wanted to hold this boy closer, for their flesh to meld together and their warmth to be shared, blocking out the harsh British wind. Simon could feel those strong fingers digging into the curve of his arse, palming and massaging the flesh as their fronts rolled into each other impatiently. But the kisses remained slow and loving, with no heat or desperation behind the movement of their lips.

 

“Want you.” Roger groaned between the deep, slow kisses, his voice breathy and warm against the small boy's cheek.

 

“Want you, too.” Simon replied with an equal amount of desire laced in his words. His thumb rubbed circles into the carve of Roger's cheekbone, mapping out the angles and sharp turns of his lover's face. He rolled his hips slightly, emitting a groan from the other's vocal chords as those fingers dug bruises into the soft skin of his bum. “Wanna ride you.” He murmured, a slight grin twitching at the corner of his lips. Roger groaned again, smoothing his hands over Simon's sides, lifting up his button down to touch the warm skin underneath.

 

“You're killing me,” His breathed, hot breath brushing across Simon's cheek. The dark boy giggled, rubbing his curve of his bum over Roger's groin as he nuzzled the crooks of their noses together. Calloused thumbs pressed into the divots of his hipbones, tugging his body down as Roger's hips bucked up, shagging him through clothes. “I swear, you're going to be the death of me.” Simon hummed, moving his hips up and down in an attempt to ride him.

 

“Why's that?” He asked, a soft, teasing tone in his voice. Roger _growled_ , and previous sweetness lost entirely in that moment as his grip harshened, nails raking down the soft skin stretching over the dark boy's sides. He bit at the juncture of Simon's neck and jaw, sharp teeth digging in to smooth skin and listening to the soft mewls coming from the dark boy's lips.

 

“God, you're fucking perfect.” He whispered against Simon's jawbone, thumb smoothing over the darkening bruise. He pressed his other hand to the dark boy's front, squeezing slightly and making him moan. In that moment, Simon didn't care about the consquences. He didn't care that they were on school grounds, in broad daylight where anyone could catch them. He didn't care about potential repercussions if they got caught or the mortification that would come with them. All he cared about was Roger, the feeling of his lover's body against his own as those sweet, praising words coxed him into arousal. He thought of the blood pulsing through their veins, making their pulses jump and their erections swell. That thick, red liquid that gave everything life and love and _desire_ , and the dark boy could feel every nerve in his body ignite into flames, fulling his arousal as he bucked slightly into Roger's hand.

 

Simon undid the button his the taller boy's trousers, sliding the fly down easily and slipping both bottoms and undergarment off his legs just enough to expose his erection to the cold autumn air. Simon stood from his place, undoing his own pants and sliding them off entirely, watching with pride as Roger's eyes widened and lips twitched into a smirk. He opened his arms, offering Simon to retake his spot in his lap, which the dark boy gladly took, emitting them to the warmth of each other's bodies. He pressed their lips together, kiss deep and sweet as Simon hovered just above Roger's lap, just enough for their heat to spread, but also to tease. Slowly, he sunk down, taking the taller boy inch by inch and hissing slightly at the burn the stretch caused. He regretted not preparing first, or even attempting to use some sort of lubricant, but the soft groans Roger was releasing into his hair made it all the better. He bottomed out after a moment, body shuddering as every muscle in his legs quivered with anticipation. Roger held him in place, strong fingers digging into his smooth waist as their warm breath mixed together. Simon squeezed his eyes shut, shifting a bit to adjust to Roger's size and listen to the soft groan the other emitted.

 

“Love you.” Roger murmured, making Simon's heart melt with adoration. Slowly, he began to move, lifting himself slightly before bottoming out again, a slight bounce in his movements. He pressed their open mouths together, the kiss sloppy and awkward as the dark boy's movements only became faster. Roger began to help, bucking his hips up to stuff the smaller boy full of him, brushing past his prostate and revealing in Simon's cute little moans.

 

Neither of them were used to this kind of sex, the kind filled with slow thrusts and deep kisses, the kind that allowed them to pour out their feelings as they muttered “I love you's” that meant everything. They had spent so much time getting used to rough sex, the kind with quick, desperate thrusts and harsh words that allowed them to release pent up rage and frustration through an illusion of desire. Simon liked both, he liked taking things slow, liked how when he shuttered a release, Roger shushed his cry to sweet kisses along his cheeks, liked how when his lover followed with his own release, he reminded Simon of his affection, muttering a rushed “I love you, fuck, I really love you,” into the dark boy's hair. And as it ended and they panted, faces flushed and bodies worn, Simon could feel the large, goofy grin spread across his face because he had come to a realization as Roger's hot breath brushed across his cheek.

 

The voices had disappeared.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, Simon just really needed to have a cat, okay? I know it had nothing to do with the rest of the chapter, but I really just wanted him to have a cat. Also, I realized that I had never made Simon's race very clear, so I felt the need to make it clear that he is, in fact, Indian and not black.


	11. You Are Sixteen, Going on Seventeen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured it's time to wrap this story up. But don't worry! I'll have plenty more fics coming in the future and lots of projects that I'm working on which will be published soon.

Simon's going to be seventeen soon, the first of his small group of friends to encounter that milestone, and he couldn't be more terrified. He never though that he would make it this far, always assumed he would have killed himself before he hit his teen years. And when thirteen rolled around and he was still scarred and broken, but oh so alive, he couldn't help but feel as though it would last. He thought, in his thirteen year old mind, that maybe sixteen would be the age. That maybe he'd live long enough to take his exams and to start having to think about university without ever going. But to a suicidal thirteen year old unable to comprehend what life could possibly have in store, the prospect of even living to that point, of making it another three years, seemed like an impossible sort of task, much less reaching the age _seventeen._

 

In all truth, things haven't changed all that much in the past four years. He's still small and quiet, the sort of person who defines his existence as merely that - _existing_. His circle of friends has stayed the same, apart from, perhaps, his growing closeness to Ralph, and the new addition of Ralph's _whatever they are_ , Jack -whom Simon still isn't sure how to feel about. The voices remain, the cutting is just as frequent, and the desire to hang himself remains rampant. The only things that's _truly_ changed is the addition of Roger, who has managed to walk into Simon's life and break that small, dark boy apart in the best of ways. He's come to understand that Roger is no better of a person than he says he is, no matter how much Simon wants to deny it, but it's not a trait that seems to bother him anymore. No, his boyfriend is not a good person , nor is he a seemingly bad person with fair intentions; he's a demon, an absolute devil in disguise, and no matter how much Simon tries to convince himself that this is _not_ the case, or that he is _not_ hopelessly head over heels for this boy, he knows that would be lying.

 

It's strange to think how much influence Roger has brought upon the small boy's life, how much change he's encouraged, how, even though nearly-seventeen-year-old Simon feels similar to thirteen-year-old Simon, he's well aware that he's not that same person anymore. In a lot of ways, he's grateful for it. He's still at a point in his life where he doesn't fully understand the emotions going through his head, the voices whispering at the back of his mind, trying to claw their ways out, but he's come to terms with them in a weird way. He can't remember the last time he injured himself, can't remember the last time these white scars decorating his body were fresh wounds. Roger's helped in his special, Roger way -by not really doing anything at all. He listens always, sits quietly with a lit cigarette between his fingers, intense eyes boring into Simon's soul as he pours out his heart for this beautiful, hideous, incredible devil before him. And it's better than the therapist with the red hair and the sugary sweet voice and it's better than sitting with Ralph under large maple trees and playing with each other's hair, much like girls would do, because it's _Roger_.

 

And when he's finished, Roger smirks, because he always smirks during retellings of emotional stories and descriptions of feelings, and starts talking about his dad, his family, his friends, and everything that generally pisses him off about the world. It's selfish and it's shitty and Simon know he shouldn't think in such a way, but there's something comforting about knowing that someone out there is more miserable and angry and upset with the world than he is. Which is why Simon finds himself in Roger's home, on Roger's bed, embraced in Roger's arms two nights before his seventeenth birthday, high off _whatever_ and drunk on cheap whiskey and this undeniable sort of love that pulses through his blood stream.

 

Simon has always had an addictive personality. It started with caffeine when he was only nine years old and struggling with insomnia, then moved to calorie counting when he was eleven and dangerously thin because _the Beast_ ruled his mind. When he was thirteen, it was the mix of self hate and that rush of endorphins that came with dragging a razor across his skin. Now, well, now it's a toss up between opiodes, menthold, and _Roger._ And yeah, okay, maybe this isn't healthy, maybe they've reached this

stage of life where they're completely fucked themselves over for good. Maybe they're the scum of the Earth, the absolute bottom of the barrel when it comes to their side of humanity, but Simon is forty-eight hours away from turning seventeen and he's never felt more _alive_.

 

* * *

 

Jack Merridew is in love, he thinks. Actually, no, he's positive. He's absolutely sure that this gorgeous, golden-tanned piece of artwork on his knees in front of him is the love the the red head's life. So what if that's sappy? So what if Jack is completely new to this, completely new to caring for another person? He's completely and hopelessly in love with Ralph and everything that the blond boy does. Sure, he's stubborn as a mule and his damned pride get in the way of everything he does, and, yeah, Jack despises his friends (aside from Simon, perhaps, who used to be in school choir with him way back in primaries and whom Roger claims to be in love with, as if that monster has any clue what love is) but he can't help it when his heart swells at the sight of that golden blond hair and those dark blue eyes, gazing up at him with so much want and need and desire. So yeah, Jack is in deep, way over his head with affection and possession and a need to keep this ray of sunshine in the dark, away from prying eyes and those who want to take it away from him.

 

Ralph groans loudly when Jack tangles his fingers through those fair lock, tugging just a bit -just in the way the golden boy likes- and the vibrations resonate through the red head's dick, making him sigh in pleasure. He doesn't think he's ever had such a good fuck before, someone who could do such unholy things with his mouth and lips and tongue that just drives Jack _crazy_ with desire. He remembers when he was fifteen and stupid and used to use _Roger of all people_ as a fuck buddy and a plaything to tame his physical desires, and now he can't quite remember why. What was it about his friend that had him so enthralled at the time? He can't remember Roger's mouth being this good or his hair being this soft or his moans to sound this angelic. He certainly doesn't remember feeling any sort of _affection_ for Roger, not like he does with Ralph, and, as a matter of fact, he can't quite recall even _enjoying_ the sex all that much.

 

Ralph flicks his tongue in that _one sinful way_ and Jack is gone, a wave of pleasure crashing into him with a low groan and a tug at those golden curls as he thrusts his hips, bucking further into the golden boy's mouth, his breathing heavy and his forehead beaded with sweat. Ralph pulls off of him, sitting back on his heels and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Jack doesn't think he's ever seen a sight more beautiful and those deep blue eyes glaring up at him, filled with faux annoyance.

 

“You could've warned me.” Ralph says, crossing his arms over his chest and narrowing his eyes in an accusing sort of way. Jack grins back, shrugging his shoulders in a sort of nonchalant manner that has the blond boy rolling his eyes. He's learned that this pride of Ralph's gets in the way of everything, that he has to keep up and act for everyone around him, including Jack. He's also learned that he doesn't really care anymore. It just makes it easier to tease.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, waving his hand dismissively. “But I also know you like it better when I don't.” Ralph's blush is probably the most rewarding thing Jack Merridew has ever witnessed and he can hear the fair boy's quiet _“Shut up, Merridew,”_ before the words are even properly formed. He stands, running his fingers through his messy blond hair and letting out a breath of annoyance. Jack can't help but find it cute as they lace their fingers together in a gesture that's disgustingly romantic.

 

“Jack Merridew,” Ralph murmurs, his voice a sort of contemplative, far away sound. “You are insufferable.” Jack grins before lifting the golden boy's chin with his index finger and pressing their lips together in something that's soft and sweet and he's just _not used to_ , but it's nice and it kind of makes him melt.

 

“But you love me anyway.” He teases and Ralph wrinkles his nose like he's disgusted by that prospect. Jack knows better by now.

 

“It's rather unfortunate, isn't it?”

 

* * *

 

Roger remembers his mother. Not only that, but he remembers _everything_ about his mother, her smile, her laugh, her cascade of golden blonde hair that would spill over her shoulders and gleam in the sunlight. He remembers her voice, soothing and sugary sweet, filled with more love and affection than he could ever, _ever_ hope for. He remembers the way should would softly hum lullaby's whenever he was around, running her perfectly manicured hands through his hair as he tried to fall asleep in her embrace. He remembers her eyes, big and multicoloured and dazzling, always filled with this motherly love that Roger had never quite understood, even as a small child. It was always directed toward him, always sparkling and gleaming with pride and adoration that made such a small creature melt with a sense of belonging.

 

He remembers how she tried _so hard_ to be the perfect mum, how she would read him bedtime stories and tickle his belly and plant kisses to his forehead that always left red marks from her lipstick, how she would spend hours doing her hair and makeup and dressing in these pretty sun dresses that she loved so much, how she would praise all of his accomplishments, hang his participation ribbons on the walls and film his birthday parties and choir performances, how she would _beg_ his father to pay for music lessons so he could learn the piano like he had always wanted to. He remembers his mother as the woman she was; kind, caring, and filled with more compassion and love and understanding that Roger ever thought he deserved.

 

Unfortunately, he remembers the bad things, too. He remembers his pill bottles in the medicine cabinets, how she had to take them every morning, telling a seven-year-old Roger that they “would help her be happy,” and explaining that sometimes people need to take medicine when they're sick. He remembers asking if she was sick, and if she needed to go to the hospital and she had laughed her soft, musical laugh and pulled him into a hug. She ran her fingers through his hair and placed soft kisses to the crown of his head and said,

 

“I've already been, my love, and the doctors say that as long as I take my happy pills, I won't be sick anymore.” And he had believed her.

 

Until the first time he witnessed his father hit her, until he heard the awful words he through her way -things a seven-year-old had never heard before- until his father took those pills away and his mother's image of perfection shattered. He remembers the first time he saw the cuts on her arm, the deep wilts stretching vertically along her forearms as tears ran down her face, smearing her mascara and making her nose run. He had hugged her and asked her if she was sick again and she had sniffed and rubbed soothing circles in his back, murmuring in his ear that “mummy will be better soon.” And again, he had believed her.

 

It feels silly now, to believe that anyone could be as perfect as he had originally perceived his mother to be. She was wonderful, he knows that, too caring and loving and compassionate for her own good. She saw the best in everyone, truly believed that Roger's father was a good man at heart, that when he hit her, she deserved it. She wanted the best for her son, but eventually, she realized she couldn't take it anymore. Roger doesn't think it was selfish of her, he never has. He thinks that it was the only way out and even though he's not religious, nor has he ever been, he hopes that she's happier, where ever she's managed to end up. He loves his mother to this day and he will never forgive his father for all the things he did to such a wonderfully flawed human being.

 

Sometimes, when he's staring into those big, green eyes and that smooth, dark skin that is Simon, a piece of him is reminded of her. Of the cookies she used to burn, but Roger would eat happily, anyway, of the stories she'd read of dragons and princes and happily-ever-afters, of the love in her eyes whenever she'd looks into her son's face. He sees that in Simon, that same compassion and kindness and perfectly flawed humanness and even though he's not a crier and has never been, he can always feel that familiar lump form in his throat as his eyes burn. He loves his boyfriend, his sweet, sweet, wonderful Simon, who has never felt ill will toward another human being, who gladly runs his fingers through Roger's hair and strokes his back when he's upset, who kisses him to no tomorrow, filled with so much love and kindness that Roger wonders what he could've possibly done to deserve all this again.

 

He's aware that he's not the best person, that Simon and he couldn't be more different, but he also knows that they balance each other out in the most perfect of ways, that everything he is, Simon isn't, and everything he isn't Simon is. It would be a beautiful thing if Roger were the romantic type, the sort of thing to gush about until he's sick. But he doesn't, instead he lives in the moment and makes sure to count his blessings that he's managed to find someone like this gorgeous dark boy, sleeping softly in his arms, only two days away from his seventeenth birthday.

 

* * *

 

For the first time in a long time, Ralph is wearing shorts. Not just any shorts, either, but the kinds that hit on inch or so above the knee, showing a few faded, white scars that tell more stories than words ever could. He's missed this, missed the mobility of this particular clothing item, how, when he goes to football practices or out for a jog, he doesn't die of sun stroke from his sweat pants. He's missed having nothing to hide, missed this love he used to have for himself and his body and his golden skin, the same skin he had spent too long mutilating. He wonders what possessed him back then, the sort of self hate and anger that must have been going through his head when he first decided to take a razor to his skin. He can't quite remember.

 

Jack has been a strangly significant help, which Ralph still can't seem to wrap his head around. Sure, he has his feelings jams with Simon, seated in the shade, away from prying eyes as they run their fingers through eachother's hair and discuss the thinks that make them want to die, but it's not quite the same. There's something to say for the way Jack handles delicate situations -or, really, how he _doesn't_ handle such things- and, weirdly enough, it's helpful. It seems as though the more he talks about things, the more upset he gets. Sure, he needs to let his emotions out every now and again, but Jack is all banter and teasing and sex -things that get Ralph's mind off of whatever it is that's bothering him- and he couldn't appreciate it more.

 

He's still not sure where they stand in terms of a relationship. Sometimes it feels as though they're _together_ , with flowers and candlelit dinners and the whole nine yards. Sometimes Ralph feels like he's flying and that perhaps they're something he never expected him to be a part of. Sometimes, they're _boy_ friends, out and open and there for everyone else to see but never have.

 

And other times it's a bit more complicated. They've yet to fully label themselves, yet to make that full transitions from enemies to friends to lovers. Or, perhaps, in their case, nothing to everything. Ralph knows that he and Jack Merridew won't last forever because he's a realist, because things never seem to work out that way, because he knows that this complicated and delicate situation of theirs is bizarre and maybe a bit unhealthy in certain aspects and it's not the sort of thing that lasts pasts secondaries. But he also knows that he's weirdly happy with whatever they are and where they stand, that he might have fallen for a devil in disguise, that perhaps he's just a little bit in love, no matter how much his ego and his morals want to deny it. Even if they are just a fling, even if they never see each other again after they go their separate ways and head to university, he's happy that he has this _thing_ with this boy he used to despise.

 

* * *

 

Simon is seventeen, but really it doesn't feel any different from sixteen, no matter how much his mum wants to convince him otherwise. It's Saturday and she's made _Kheer_ , a sweet rice pudding made for special occasions in India. She's talking, as always, quick and too much and in a lot of ways it's comforting. He's still a bit hungover from the previous night, having already celebrated with Ralph and Peter and the twins. They watched a few of his favorite movies and attempted to makes a cake whalst drunk off their asses and sang “Happy Birthday,” exceptionally off-key. It was wonderful, the exact sort of thing the dark boy wanted to do with his friends. His mother's _Kheer_ is amazing as always, and he appreciates her traditionalist ways, especially when it comes to authentic Indian cuisine. He takes a moment, as he's shoveling his mother's birthday breakfast into his mouth, to count his blessings and he doesn't think he's ever been more grateful.

 

Today, Simon is seventeen and even though it's not much different from sixteen or fifteen or fourteen, it's infinitely better.

 


End file.
